"Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. "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. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident.
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