And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. “Either I want to shout,” said Mr. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. It was ten feet long, a relic. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment, with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with him. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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