“We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights. ’ She bit her lip, frowning. I love my husband. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Trenchard glanced at the document. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. "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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