Sacco chafed under his barred restraint. He was not one to find escape in reading or thinking his thoughts. Even the anarchism that was so fundamental to him attracted him more by its unrelenting code than by its philosophy. He was a man of abounding physical energy for whom work and love were necessary releases. Jail was an exercise in patience that he could never learn. Several times in the course of his years at Dedham he approached and even crossed the borderline of sanity. From his cell, with its rolled blanket and wooden water bucket and tin mug and enamel slop pail, he watched the flaring twilights diminish, the approach of morning along the empty streets, the orbit of the sun as it shifted across the upper windows. Days and weeks and months passed meaninglessly. In November 1921, Sacco had written to Vanzetti in the grimmer confinement of Charlestown: “I am very sorry that no one comes and see you, no one comes to see me neither, but Rosie.” The week before, his wife had brought little Ines to the jail for the first time. Sacco was delighted to hold the plump crowing baby in his arms. Mrs. Evans became a staunch periodic visitor. Sacco, in spite of his theoretical rejection of bourgeois society, developed an intense filial affection for her. From Mrs. Glendower Evans, separated from him by the whole range of the sociological spectrum, she became Auntie Bee. In 1925 he wrote her: “From since the day I have meet you, you have occupied in my heart my mother her place, and so like I been respect you and I been loved you.” It was a curious transition from the brown peasant woman of Torremaggiore to the self-contained Bostonian, but Mrs. Evans was only one of the elderly women who were to take an increasingly maternal interest in the Dedham prisoner. Among the earliest was kindly, mousy Mrs. Cerise Carman Jack in her squeaky high-button boots; for a while she took Rosina and the children to her farm in Sharon. There was Mrs. Jessica Henderson, matron of good causes and pillar of the Anti-Vivisection Society. And there were Mrs. Gertrude Winslow and Mrs. Codman, the latter a cousin by marriage of the head of the Civil Liberties Committee. Sacco always took a more trusting attitude toward women than toward men. Evenings were the most difficult for “thes sad reclus,” as he whimsically termed himself. He kept thinking of the bungalow in South Stoughton, how he would sometimes visit friends after supper and come back with the sleeping Dante in his arms and Rosina beside him. “Those day,” he wrote Mrs. Jack, “they was a some happy day.”