" "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. "At my first being acquainted with the place," says this writer, in the 'Miseries of a Prison,' "the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea. Look somewhere else in life.
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