“But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. . One night she apparently fell asleep. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
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