" And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. "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. "If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted. Her likeness to her sister gave him at first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a wonderful sense of relief.
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