Thomas Moran Monterey Coast painting

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is an inmate. It is rather an interesting case. He has been here for thirty-five years.”
“But I’ve never seen anyone saner,” said Angela.
“He certainly has that air,” said the doctor, “and in the last twenty years we have treated him as such. He is the and soul of the place. Of course he is not one of the private patients, but we allow him to mix freely with them. He plays billiards excellently, does conjuring tricks at the concert, mends their gramophones, valets them, helps them in their crossword puzzles and various—er—hobbies. We allow them to give him small tips for services rendered, and he must by now have amassed quite a little fortune. He has a way with even the most troublesome of them. An invaluable man about the place.”
“Yes, but why is he here?”
“Well, it is rather sad. When he was a very young man he killed somebody—a young woman quite unknown to him, whom he knocked off her bicycle and then throttled. He gave himself up immediately afterwards and has been here ever since.”
“But surely he is perfectly safe now. Why is he not let out?”
“Well, I suppose if it was to anyone’s interest, he would be. He has no relatives except a step-sister who lives in Plymouth. She used to visit him at one time