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作者: Charles Dickens

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The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question,
merely replied, "One must have patience, my dear!" Three turnkeys
who entered responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment,
and one added, "For the love of Liberty;" which sounded in that
place like an inappropriate conclusion.
The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and
with a horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon
the noisome flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all
such places that are ill cared for!
"In secret, too," grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written
paper. "As if I was not already full to bursting!"
He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles
Darnay awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes,
pacing to and fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting
on a stone seat: in either case detained to be imprinted on the
memory of the chief and his subordinates.

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