"How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. "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 felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. Now I’d like the rest of your story.
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