There’s something about the door that terrifies me. I suspect that it’s still unlocked. But I won’t try it to see. To try it would risk some fragile things.  If it were locked and I had maintained my belief that Roger Sylvester, my new gaoler, being a good man, had left it open as a rebellious gesture against a system that had incarcerated a fellow good man, then something gentle and precious would be dashed against the old stone walls of Bakewell Gaol.

If it were not locked, then I would have doubted my picture of the new and honest man…

So, I don’t try it… I just look at it from the bed across my cell.

I must have drifted off. I am brought back to consciousness by the arrival of my new gaoler, so I can’t say whether he has unlocked the door or…