But as every piece written on the slate had to be rubbed out to make room for the next, I soon sickened of composition.

It was murdering one bantling to make place for another.
Sometimes the dulness of my incarceration was relieved by overhearing whispered conversations outside my cell door.

Until we became well known, there was considerable speculation among the prisoners as to who we were, and what we were there for.

One day a couple of fellows, engaged in cleaning the corridor, worked themselves near together, one standing on either side of my door.

"Who's the bloke in yer ?" I heard queried.