She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming.
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