And at last with a deep, warm certainty I felt myself where I belonged.
CHAPTER XVII
Early in the evening I was taken out to the visitor's room, and there I found Eleanore's father. When he saw me, Dillon smiled.
"Do you know where you are?" he asked. "You're not in the Bastille—or even Libby Prison. You're in the Jefferson Market Jail."
"It hasn't felt that way," I said.
"Probably not. But it is that way, and there's Eleanore to be thought of."
"Eleanore will understand."
I saw his features tighten. I noticed now that his face was drawn, as though he, too, had been through a good deal.
"Yes," he said, "she understands. But it's a bit tough on her, isn't it? Jail is not quite in her line."