That's a more intolerable situation than the other.
For if I'd been--pushed in, against my will--kicking, even--once the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder's steps along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on.

But as it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own accord.

I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again.

And all the while I'm thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The shortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night or one day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored." "But, if you feel like that, why--" began Linda quickly.
"Ah!" cried Jonathan.

And that "ah!" was somehow almost exultant.
"There you have me.