“It is hard to express one’s self, but I do want to be honest with you. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. "It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. I defy you to explain it away. He looked about for his hat, and put it on. My dress, my person will be minutely described. . She cried out his name in ecstasy. She looked at him gravely and squinted. But I mean to have them.
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