"You've got no cause to thank me," he said. "I just wanted you to know. I want to keep posted. I don't want to tell anything that ain't necessary, but if the worst comes to the worst, by Girl, I'll tell it all."
"Is that your promise?"
"Yes." Abruptly Daniels put on his hat, and without a word of purling marched out of the door, leaving Langdon staring through narrowed lids after his retreating form as he reached for the telephone.
He was late going into court, but whatever conflicting emotions the promise made by Daniels had roused in him were hidden by the smiling mask of confidence and ease with which he reassured, not only Mary, but the spectators.
To Mary, that smile and the deep abiding tenderness in his eyes were the two things that made it possible to hear with patience the weary strain of life passing days. The first shuddering horror of the tragedy had passed, it is true, and, in spite of its occasional return in the quiet of sleepless nights, it had given place to a less poignant, though bitter enough, suffering.
With the passing of the acute agony, however, the little things at first submerged came to the surface and became a source of daily martyrdom. The hard bed, the coarse food, the lack of privacy, the limited conveniences, the roughness of the police and the suffocating sense of being a prisoner, of being denied the fresh air and the sunshine and the right to go where she pleased, seemed almost unbearable.  . 