Sanford Godwin was a tall, ashen-faced man, in the prison pallor
of whose face was written the determination of despair, a man in
whose blue eyes was a queer, half-insane light of hope. One knew
that if it had not been for the little woman at the window at the
top of the hill, the hope would probably long ago have faded. But
this man knew she was always there, thinking, watching, eagerly
planning in aid of any new scheme in the long fight for freedom.
"The alkaloid was present, that is certain," he told Kennedy. "My
wife has told you that. It was scientifically proved. There is no
use in attacking that."
Later on he remarked: "Perhaps you think it strange that one in
the very shadow of the death chair"--the word stuck in his throat-
-"can talk so impersonally of his own case. Sometimes I think it
is not my case, but some one else's. And then--that door."
He shuddered and turned away from it. On one side was life, such
as it was; on the other, instant death. No wonder he pleaded with
Kennedy.
"Why, Walter," exclaimed Craig, as we walked back to the warden's
office to telephone to town for a car to take us up to East Point,
"whenever he looks out of that cage he sees it.
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