She helped him take it off. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. He noticed the two chairs close together. She nodded. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. The day before this examination was appointed to take place—the third of the prisoner's detention—an old man, respectably dressed, requested permission to see him.
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