‘Because I love you. As the time when his identity had to be proved approached, this rigour was, in a trifling degree, relaxed, and a few persons were occasionally admitted to the ward, but only in the presence of Austin. Kneebone. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them.
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