[It is unlike any prison Jean Valjean has known - the facilities appear clean and sterile in white, a stark contrast from the dirty brick and imposing iron of his past - yet he recognizes it for what it is. The latticed bars guarding each cell instill in him the old feeling of entrapment and ignite in him the old instinct for escape. What horrifies him most of all, however, are the faces he spies between the bars: children, all of them, but stripped of the joy that God rolled into their beings.]
What is this place?
[This question he asks the surrounding dimness, casting his eyes about in search of someone who might answer. His voice, at first hollowed out by his horror, fills now with his compassion.]
Why are these children here, locked up like convicts? Who could do this to innocent souls?
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What is this place?
[This question he asks the surrounding dimness, casting his eyes about in search of someone who might answer. His voice, at first hollowed out by his horror, fills now with his compassion.]
Why are these children here, locked up like convicts? Who could do this to innocent souls?