Her dress was a studiously plain gray gown, not without a little girlish ornament at the neck and bosom.

Every detail of her lovely personality entered Harold's mind and remained there.

He had hardly reached the analytic stage in matters of this kind, but he knew very well that this girl was like her song; she could die but never deceive.

He wondered what her first name could be; no girl like that would be called "Dot" or "Cad." It ought to be Lily or Marguerite.

He was glad to hear one of the girls call her Mary.
He gazed at her almost without ceasing, but as the other convicts did the same he was not observably devoted, and whenever she raised her big, clear eyes toward him both shrank, he from a sense of unworthiness, she from the instinctive fear of men which a young girl of her type has deep-planted within her.