When I drink blood, I. McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis. "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. Heaven alone knows why. They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. John picked it up and put it in her hands.
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