Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow. Amidst it all, however, there were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. But one must disguise oneself. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today.
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