He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. "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. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket.
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