" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. . ‘We don’t know who she is. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. Sheppard. Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. The world, perhaps, will be educated out of its idea of fixed standards. It is safe. "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.
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