Explore "Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet" by Charles Kingsley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I was alone in my cell.
Three years' imprisonment! Thirty-six months! -- one thousand and ninety-five days -- and twenty-four whole hours in each of them! Well -- I should sleep half the time: one-third at least. Perhaps I should not be able to sleep! To lie awake, and think -- there! the thought was horrible -- it was all horrible. To have three whole years cut out of my life, instead of having before me, as I had always as yet had, a mysterious Eldorado of new schemes and hopes, possible developments, possible triumphs, possible bliss -- to have nothing, nothing before me but blank and stagnation, dead loss and waste: and then to go out again, and start once more where I had left off yesterday!