Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. "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. H’m. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that's sufficient.
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