"Crouching pallid in the dock, abject or surly or swooning, his lips parched, his fingers fumbling over his face, the soul within him howling like a dark creature brought to earth, a murderer waiting for sentence. The judge's words drone in his ears, he lifts his sleeve to hide his cheek. It is important, that sleeve. If suave, well-turned, fashionable, this agony and sweat will pass; he will merely remove his abode to a comfortable jail where he can eat, sleep, exercise, read, at leisure. If the sleeve be tattered, he will...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
