"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 in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. It was the blouse that gave Lucy away. " "Perhaps that was it. Miss Ellicot, for instance, considers me a most improper person.
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