At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue.
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