CHAPTER 24It was the room in which prisoners were allowed to see their friends, a long table ran down the middle and at each end stood a warder. At one side Pamela Burslem was sitting on a visitors' chair, her head bent on her hands, her shoulders shaken by dry, bitter sobs. Her small, piquant face was disfigured by marks of recent weeping, but she was not crying now. Instead, her eyes were hard and bright, though her whole frame was shaken by those hard, tearless sobs. On the other side of the table of division Sir John Burslem was standing, that tall, gaunt figure of a man with the thin, yellowing face that was like and yet so unlike the father Pamela had known and loved all her life.
"Pam, my child, you must be brave," he was saying in the voice that was the one thing that seemed unalt
