There were hours, from day to day--or at least there were moments, snatched even from clear duties--when I had to shut myself up to think. She had said that pockets were funny things to have: and then all of a sudden she had broken away and had run laughing down the sloping curve of the path. "He stole LETTERS!" She couldn't know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow; so I showed them off as I might. Just as every sense is afflicted with a fitting torment, so is every spiritual faculty; the fancy with horrible images, the sensitive faculty with alternate longing and rage, the mind and understanding with an interior darkness more terrible even than the exterior darkness which reigns in that dreadful prison.