"I suppose since Rosenstein was defeated for mayor here he won't play."
"Won't he, though?" This presumably from Rosenstein.
To Clyde's left, in the cell next to him, a voice, to a passing guard, low and yet distinctly audible: "Psst! Any word from Albany yet?"
"No word, Herman."
"And no letter, I suppose."
"No letter."
The voice was very strained, very tense, very miserable, and after this, silence.
A moment later, from another cell farther off, a voice from the lowest hell to which a soul can descend—complete and unutterable despair—"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
And then from the tier above another voice: "Oh, Jesus! Is that farmer going to begin again? I can't stand it. Guard! Guard! Can't you get some dope for that guy?"
Once more the voice from the lowest: "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"