Читать книгу Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist - Berkman Alexander - Страница 18

I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I eagerly listen for the familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old rangeman99 “sweeping up.” The sensitive mouth puckered up in an inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit.

“Hello, Aleck! How’re you feeling to-day?”