She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. He became angry.
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