Wasting no time, he crossed straight to the shutters and opened them. "She has no secrets from me. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. "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 made a bed for herself out of wood and furs.
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