"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. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. She threw the bags of marijuana and a tiny bag of white powder he had in the sewer, unfortunately they were his only worldly possessions. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. But, as this produced no effect, and did not even elicit a groan, the prisoner was carried back to Newgate. ‘Never. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. Well, let's beat it to the hotel. Before we start, I'll accommodate you with a pair of ruffles.
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