She was back; I should see her. I started up.
“The Lion’s home,” I repeated.
The turnkey snarled, “She was posted as overdue three days ago.”
I couldn’t believe it was true.
“I saw it in the papers,” he grumbled on. “I dursn’t tell you.” He continued violently, “Blow my dickey. It would make a cat sick.”
My sudden exaltation, my sudden despair, gave way to indifference.
“Oh, coming, coming!” he shouted, in answer to an immense bellowing cry that loomed down the passage without.
I heard him grumble, “Of course, of course. I shan’t make a penny.” Then he caught hold of my arm. “Here, come along, someone to see you in the press-yard.”
He pulled me along the noisome, black warren of passages, slamming the inner door viciously behind him.
The press-yard—the exercising ground for the condemned—was empty; the last batch had gone out, my batch would be the next to come in, the turnkey said suddenly. It was a well of a place, high black walls going up into the desolate, weeping sky, and quite tiny. At one end was a sort of slit in the wall, closed with tall, immense windows. From there a faint sort of rabbit’s squeak was going up through the immense roll and rumble of traffic on the other side of the wall. The turnkey pushed me towards it.