The Governor of the prison thinks I have no cause of complaint against
him or his jailors. He is right, and it would be wrong of me to
complain; they have done their duty, they have kept me safe; and then
they have been complaisant at my arrival and departure. Ought I not to
be satisfied?
This Governor, with his benign smile, his soft words, his eye which
flatters and spies, his coarse heavy hands,--he is the incarnation of a
prison!
Ah, hapless creature! what will become of me? What will they do with me?
* * * * *