prison; in his lowest circle people could move about; could see each
other, and hear each other groan: there was some change, some human
companionship in misery...."

"When did you begin to eat the food?" I asked.

"I can't tell, Frank," he replied. "After some days I got so hungry I
had to eat a little, nibble at the outside of the bread, and drink some
of the liquid; whether it was tea, coffee or gruel, I could not tell. As
soon as I really ate anything it produced violent diarrhoea and I was
ill all day and all night. From the beginning I could not sleep. I grew
weak and had wild delusions.... You must not ask me to describe it. It
is like asking a man who has gone through fever to describe one of the
terrifying dreams. At Wandsworth I thought I should go mad; Wandsworth
is the worst: no dungeon in hell can be worse; why is the food so bad?
It even smelt bad. It was not fit for dogs."

"Was the food the worst of it?" I asked.

"The hunger made you weak, Frank; but the inhumanity was the worst of
it; what devilish creatures men are. I had never known anything about
them. I had never dreamt of such cruelties. A man spoke to me at
exercise. You know you are not allowed to speak. He was in front of me,
and he whispered, so that he could not be seen, how sorry he was for me,
and how he hoped I would bear up. I stretched out my hands to him and
cried, 'Oh, thank you, thank you.' The kindness of his voice brought
tears into my eyes. Of course I was punished at once for speaking; a
dreadful punishment. I won't think of it: I dare not. They are
infinitely cunning in malice here, Frank; infinitely cunning in
punishment.... Don't let us talk of it, it is too painful, too horrible