Beyond the shadow of any doubt, at this present moment, a hundred thousand farmers are knotting their brows over its spread pages ere they tap out their final pipe and go to bed.

And yet, so far was I beyond my tables, that all I needed was a mere look at a man to know his predispositions, his co-ordinations, and the index fraction of his motion-wastage.
And here I must close this first chapter of my narrative.

It is nine o'clock, and in Murderers' Row that means lights out.

Even now, I hear the soft tread of the gum-shoed guard as he comes to censure me for my coal-oil lamp still burning.

As if the mere living could censure the doomed to die!.