And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying.
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