What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. And, while the turnkey was busy with the keys, she whispered to the black, "Follow him, Caliban. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. ’ He looked the girl up and down. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. "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.
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