"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. ’ Gerald moved to the long sofa, dusted it with elaborate care with one of its cushions, and with a gesture invited her to sit down. Don’t look so frightened. Sometimes I try to talk. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded.
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