"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 had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. McClintock was amused. But don't suppose, Madam, that anything I say has reference to you. Manning. She's not for pleasure, but for work. Only the strong survived. You did not find him, but did you find his pistol? In the room beyond the bookroom there—a big room where a table had fallen.
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