C AY what one will about prison life in general, modify 
it never so much by special chambers, obsequious 
turnkeys, a general tendency to make one as comfortable 
as possible, a jail is a jail; and there is no getting away 
from that. Cowperwood in his new private room, which 
was not in any way inferior to that of the ordinary board- 
ing-house, was nevertheless conscious of the character of 
that section of this real prison which he was not in. He 
knew that there were cells there, probably greasy and 
smelly and vermin-infested from contact with a long line 
of human victims who had either sat or lain in them, and 
that they were inclosed by heavy iron bars, which would 
have as readily clanked on him as on those who were now 
therein incarcerated if it had not been that he had the 
price to pay for something better. As a matter of fact, 
when he had come in down-stairs the first night he had 
caught a whiff of that peculiarly stale chemical odor which 
accompanies most prisons, a faint combination of unwashed 
offal pots, soap-suds, and lime. So much for the alleged 
equality of man, he thought, which gives to one man, even 
within the grim confines of the machinery of justice, such 
personal liberty as he himself was now enjoying, and denies 
to another, because he lacks wit or presence or friends or 
wealth, these more comfortable things which money will 
buy. Could any one blame him, Cowperwood thought, 
for putting the emphasis in this world on money? Did 
the lack of cash bring any one anything save compulsory 
subservience and a lack of consideration? No, money was 
very important, as this present situation had proved: and 
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