nd the purple of the
petals gave a quiver and seemed to glow . . .
She did that, and I became aware of the dimness of the world that was
about her—of the wards, the women in them, the matrons, even my own self.
We might have been painted, all of us, from the same poor box of watery tints;
and here was a single spot of colour, that seemed to have come upon the
canvas by mistake.
But I didn''t wonder, then, about how a violet might, in that grim-earthed
place, have found its way into those pale hands. I only thought, suddenly
and horribly, What can her crime have been? Then I remembered the
enamel tablet swinging near my head. I let the inspection close, quite
noiselessly, and moved to read it.
There was her prison number and her class, and beneath them her
offence: Fraud & Assault. The date of her reception was eleven months ago.
The date of her release was for four years hence.
Four years! Four Millbank years—which must, I think, be terribly slow
ones. I meant to move to her gate then, to call her to me and have her story
from her; and I would have done it, had there not come at that moment,
from further back along the first passage, the sound of Miss Ridley''s voice,
and then of her boots, grinding the sand upon the cold flags of the ward. And
that made me hesitate. I thought, How would it be, if the matrons were to look