The Governor of the prison thinks I have no cause of complaint against him or his jailors. He is right, and it would be wrong of me to complain; they have done their duty, they have kept me safe; and then they have been complaisant at my arrival and departure. Ought I not to be satisfied?
This Governor, with his benign smile, his soft words, his eye which flatters and spies, his coarse heavy hands, — he is the incarnation of a prison!
Ah, hapless creature! what will become of me? What will they do with me?