He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment, with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with him. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo. You know what's what. Jests are not for seasons like this.
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