Even when walking in the prison-yard, on cold or fair days, when the air was like a knife or when it had the sun of summer in it, it still had seemed to choke him.
In prison he had read, thought, and worked much.

They had at least done that for him.

The Attorney-General had given him freedom to work with his hands, and to slave in the workshop like one whose living depended on it.

Some philanthropic official had started the idea of a workshop, and the officials had given the best of the prisoners a chance to learn trades and make a little money before they went out into the world.

All that Dyck had earned went to purchase things he needed, and to help his fellow prisoners or their families.
Where was he now?
The gap between the old life of nonchalance, frivolity, fantasy, and excitement was as great as that between heaven and hell.