BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison.
GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try and get some sort of satisfaction out of it—well, so you can now if you try.
WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it.
BOB. What do either of you know about it?
GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and the worst of everything.
BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think I haven't imagined it?
GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You can be miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy anywhere, if you try to be.
WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually happy in prison, Gerald.
GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could.
BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that.