Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. "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. She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. Ennison stood by her side.
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