But she had found it very difficult. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. She had heard the trader utter it many times. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight. Are these folks your current foster parents?” “Yes.
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