“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. " "But you can imagine it. “I too am asked. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!” Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph.
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