I found this to be the case. The tables had already been scrubbed; the corridor washed; there were only the brass knobs on the doors that awaited attention. I polished and repolished with assiduity. But time hung heavy on my hands. A kindly attendant gave me the tip that the superintendent would not like to find me idle, so I traversed the corridor over and over again, loathing each separate handle, to which I applied Brasso with a new and instinctive dislike.

I think I must have looked not very well, for presently the battered woman⁠—her name was Ellen⁠—beckoned me mysteriously.

“Kitty’s got some hot tea made for you, dear. I put it in your cell; drink it up, I’ll see that nobody catches you.”