Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. Her body rose up to meet his in a cat-like stretch and she smiled. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. But I'll tell you about him some other time. "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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