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 society. The crime was bought by the sacrifice of so-and-so many years of freedom, bought and honestly paid for. An honest deal, and nothing else, says Number 101.

I see him behind the little window at the right end of the second row, as he sits on a narrow bench, leaning forward, with his elbows upon his knees and with folded hands, glancing through the iron bars into the darkness outside, towards one little twinkling star high above the black earth and its codes of rules and regulations.

Number 101 is thinking, although there is—officially—no personality behind the thoughts. "Halloo!" cry the thoughts, undaunted by the heavy doors and iron bars; but the well-known places and figures do not return the greeting as confidentially as of old. There is one sweet, girlish face at the remembrance of which the prisoner's heart waxes warm, although it is not known—officially—that Number 101 possesses a heart; but it turns away from him like all the other acquaintances, whereat he clinches both hands against the small speck of the dark sky visible through the little window in the wall.

"That is not the right way to treat a prisoner who served his time," say the thoughts. "Beware! Any one who scoffs at me, exonerated as I am now, will be duly punished, like all other offenders. There is justice even for an offender when he has paid his debts to justice."