Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. "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. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. Say something. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. He resolved to judge for himself. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. " "I don't care if he is," rejoined Thames, boldly. “Men’s waists are neither here nor there; A man scores always, everywhere. 1. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals.
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