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Seen close, of course, Millbank is not charming. Its scale is vast, and its lines and angles, when realised in walls and towers of yellow brick and shuttered windows, seem only wrong or perverse. It is as if the prison had been designed by a man in the grip of a nightmare or a madness—or had been made expressly to drive its inmates mad. I think it would certainly drive me mad, if I had to work as a warder there.
When Mr Shillitoe came to me at last, I took his hand. I said, ‘I am glad to see you! I had begun to worry that the men might take me for a convict just arrived, and lead me to a cell, and leave me there!’ He laughed. There were never confusions like that, he said, at Millbank.
DEATH IS DUMB, WHEN LIFE IS DEAF
A man who stepped to help me carry them said, Why was it that the gentlest readers invariably ordered such brutes of books?
Perhaps, however, it is the same with spinsters as with ghosts; and one has to be of their ranks in order to see them at all.
Why do gentlemen’s voices carry so clearly, when women’s are so easily stifled?
