The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. But it is not entirely without hope, for perhaps they may find some succour with Charvill.
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