Unless I’m dreaming. It seems we all come back
To Krindlesyke, like martins to the byre-baulks:
It draws us back--can’t keep away, nohow.
Ay, first and last, the old gaol is my home.
You’re surely forgetting ...

JUDITH:
I’m forgetting nothing.
It’s you’ve the knack of only recollecting
What you’ve a mind to. How could you have come
If you remembered all these walls have seen?

JIM:
So walls have eyes as well as ears? I can’t
Get away from eyes ... But they’ll not freeze my blood,
Or stare me out of countenance: they’ve no tongues
To tittle-tattle: they’re no tell-tale-tits,
No slinking skeadlicks, nosing and sniffing round,
To wink and nod when I turn my back, colloguing,
With heads together, to lay me by the heels.
Nay: I’m not fleyed of a bit of whitewashed plaister.
But you’re a nice one to welcome home a traveller
With “cannots” and clavers of eyes. Why can’t you let
Things rest, and not hark back, routing things out,
And casting them in my teeth? Why must you lug
The dead to light--dead days? ... I’m not afraid
Of corpses: the dead are dead: their eyes are shut:
Leastways, they cannot glower when once the mould’s
Atop of them: though they follow a chap round the room,
Seeking the coppers to clap them to ... dead eyes