Explore "The Scales of Justice" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The cold grey mist falling over London as George Drummond's train slid from the roaring arch of Paddington station had fallen still more chill over the moors behind Longtown. That was some hours before George started on his momentous journey--before the joy and happiness of his life went out. Against the background of the marshes stood the long, grey building that constituted Greystone Gaol. It was perhaps--at any rate from the point of view of the authorities--an ideal spot for a convict prison; from any standpoint it was dreary and desolate to a degree. If it had been necessary to chill the heart and take the last ray of hope out of a convict, a glimpse of Greystone would have done it.
There was work to be done here of a kind--the building of a long wall, to keep back the creeping sea, foundations to be dug in the shifting gravel, a slow, tedious job that showed little result after a year's labour.