This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. I had special ways of getting out of the basement without them noticing, and often I could smuggle a child or two out for 160 the day and they were never the wiser. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. "Speak out—don't be alarmed," said Wood, in a kind and encouraging tone. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again.
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