It is perfectly awful to let the mind grind itself away between the upper and nether millstones of regret and remorse without respite; with books my life would be livable--any life," he added sadly.
"The life, then, is hard.

Tell me about it." "I don't like to," he said, "it is all so dreadful--and ugly and painful, I would rather not think of it," and he turned away despairingly.
"You must tell me, or I shall not be able to help you." Bit by bit I won the confession from him.
"At first it was a fiendish nightmare; more horrible than anything I had ever dreamt of; from the first evening when they made me undress before them and get into some filthy water they called a bath and dry myself with a damp, brown rag and put on this livery of shame.

The cell was appalling: I could hardly breathe in it, and the food turned my stomach; the smell and sight of it were enough: I did not eat anything for days and days, I could not even swallow the bread; and the rest of the food was uneatable; I lay on the so-called bed and shivered all night long....

Don't ask me to speak of it, please.

Words cannot convey the cumulative effect of a myriad discomforts, brutal handling and slow starvation.