Telliford shuddered.
“‘Stone walls and iron bars,’” he said.
“Have faith, sir.”
“I’ll try.”
“At least you have your poetry. Are you sufficiently supplied with paper and pencil? I’ll make sure your needs are seen to.”
“Maybe it would help me to write some poetry. Maybe it would take my mind off things.”
“Perhaps it would. And I’ll devote myself wholeheartedly to your defense, sir, whether I ever see a penny for my troubles or not.” He drew himself up to his full height. “After all,” he said, “it’s my obligation. ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.’ That’s also Lovelace, Mr. Telliford. ‘To Lucasta, Going to the Wars.’ Good day, Mr. Telliford. You have nothing to worry about.”