Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. "There's only one way out of the muddle, that I can see. And you talk like that! What the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast at random. "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. I can’t love you.
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