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212 John Galsworthy
clined towards the door, listening. He moves a
little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making
no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying
harder and harder to hear something, any little
thing that is going on outside. He springs sud
denly upright as if at a sound and remains
perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh,
he moves to his work, and stands looking at it,
with his head down; he does a stitch or two, hav
ing the air of a man so lost in sadness that each
stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then, turn
ing abruptly, he begins pacing his cell, moving his
head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops
again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms
of his hands against it, with his fingers spread out,
leans his forehead against the iron. Turning
from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards
the window, tracing his way with his finger along
the top line of the distemper that runs round
the wall. He stops under the window, and, pick
ing up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It
has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid
falls out of his hand with a clatter the only
sound that has broken the silence and he stands
staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the
shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness he
seems to be seeing somebody or something there.
There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light be
hind the glass screen has been turned up. The
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