began to feel that I had supped full on horrors.

"Some of them are kind," he sighed. "The one that brought me in here is
so kind to me. I should like to do something for him, when I get out.
He's quite human. He does not mind talking to me and explaining things;
but some of them at Wandsworth were brutes.... I will not think of them
again. I have sewn those pages up and you must never ask me to open them
again: I dare not open them," he cried pitifully.

"But you ought to tell it all," I said, "that's perhaps the purpose you
are here for: the ultimate reason."

"Oh, no, Frank, never. It would need a man of infinite strength to come
here and give a truthful record of all that happened to him. I don't
believe you could do it; I don't believe anybody would be strong enough.
Starvation and purging alone would break down anyone's strength.
Everybody knows that you are purged and starved to the edge of death.
That's what two years' hard labour means. It's not the labour that's
hard. It's the conditions of life that make it impossibly hard: they
break you down body and soul. And if you resist, they drive you
crazy.... But, please! don't say I said anything; you've promised, you
know you have: you'll remember: won't you!"

I felt guilty: his insistence, his gasping fear showed me how terribly
he must have suffered. He was beside himself with dread. I ought to have
visited him sooner. I changed the subject.

"You shall have writing materials and your books, Oscar. Force yourself
to write. You are looking better than you used to look; your eyes are
brighter, your face clearer." The old smile came back into his eyes, the