9009
highwayman, of the pickpocket, the bulletheaded burglar, the stony-faced confidence-man—who met every morning by the sinks and talked lipless words; and after a while he felt himself sinking into a blessed somnolence.
“Here, you up there in 17; stop it, stop it!”
And again 9009 awoke to find himself up against his cell-door, his hands knotted about the vibrating bars; and from the depths of the corridor there came to him the harsh echo of rattling steel.
This time the little window near the roof was pale with dawn.
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