She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. "You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. "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. Well, I told aunt. It still failed in something.
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