the memory of our friendship is the shadow that walks with me here: that seems never to leave me: that wakes me up at night to tell me the same story over and over till its wearisome iteration makes all sleep abandon me till dawn: at dawn it begins aain: it follows me into the prison-yard and makes me talk to myself as I tramp round: each detail that accompanied each dreadful moment I am forced to recall: there is nothing that happened in those ill-starred years that I cannot recreacte in that chamber of the brain which is set apart for grief or for despair: every stained note of your voice, every twitch and gesture of your nervous hands, every bitter word, every poinsoned phrase comes back to me: I remember the street or river down which we passed, the wall or woodland that surrounded us,...