You might guess whatever you pleased about its inmate; it was like trying to imagine the emotions pictured upon the face behind a smooth, black mask.

Slim stopped before the closed door and listened.
The rusty, iron hasp attracted his slow gaze, at first puzzling him a little, making him vaguely aware that something about it did not quite harmonize with his mental attitude toward it.

It took him a full minute to realize that he had expected to find the door locked, and that the hasp hung downward uselessly, just as it hung every day in the year.
He remembered then that Andy had spoken of chaining Dunk to the anvil.
That would make it unnecessary to lock the door, of course.

Slim seized the hanging strip of iron, gave it a jerk and bathed all the dingy interior with a soft, sunset glow.

Cobwebs quivered at the inrush of the breeze, and glistened like threads of fine gold.