I sat among them, and ate the dinner I was served. It was soup, as Miss Wilson had said, and I saw her looking at me, nodding her
head, as I supped it; but I would not catch her eye. I would not catch anyone''s eye. I had been drugged and stupid, before; now I was back in a sort of fright—a sort of fever of fright—sweating, and twitching, and wild. I looked at the doors and windows—I think, if I had seen a window of plain glass, I should have run through it. But the windows all had bars on. I don''t know what we should have done in a fire. The doors had ordinary locks, and with the right sort of tools I suppose I might have picked them. But I hadn''t any kind of tool—not so much as a hair-pin—and nothing to make one with. The spoons we ate our soup with were made of tin, and so soft, they might have been rubber. You could not have picked your nose with them.