It was a dark, forbidding place with high walls and high corner turrets like some medieval house of correction. His cell was a small square with four bunks and like all the others it was fully occupied, many of the prisoners, like himself, awaiting trial. The Tony O’Reilly who appeared now, handcuffed, in the bare, drab visitors’ room shocked Father Pat and Tim Dolan. He looked pale, thinner and his shoulders sagged despondently. He looked scared, too, his dark-ringed, sunken eyes fearful as if he was wary of being attacked. Father Pat glanced at Tim, his eyes registering his deep concern. He had kicked up a fuss when refused permission to see Tony and he had refused to leave. True, they had arrived unannounced and without an appointment but he had railed at the prison officer who refused them entry, demanded to see the warden or better still, he said, a telephone so he could ring his friend the mayor. He caused such a disturbance that a senior guard or someone in authority had finally relented.
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