between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only difference I
can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever going to let me out.
That's a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I'd been--
pushed in, against my will--kicking, even--once the door was locked, or at
any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to
take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder's steps
along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so
on. But as it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own
accord. I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against
the ceiling, do everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again.
And all the while I'm thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or
whatever it is, 'The shortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only
one night or one day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out
there, undiscovered, unexplored."

"But, if you feel like that, why--" began Linda quickly.

"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that "ah!" was somehow almost exultant. "There
you have me. Why? Why indeed? There's the maddening, mysterious
question. Why don't I fly out again? There's the window or the door or
whatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut--is it? Why don't
I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister." But he gave her no
time to answer.

"I'm exactly like that insect again. For some reason"--Jonathan paused
between the words--"it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the
insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even for
an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriously consider,
this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me leaving? It's not
as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys to provide for, but, after