"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve
him!—is still living. ToC
Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the
officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the
Lodge. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?”
“No one,” Anna answered firmly. The second, comprising the bulk of the jail, and by many
degrees worse in point of accommodation, having several dismal and noisome
wards under ground, was common both to debtors and malefactors,—an
association little favourable to the morals or comforts of the former, who, if they
were brought there with any notions of honesty, seldom left with untainted
principles. Had to give up
the work and take to this. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. .
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