"If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. I can’t even make myself care. "At my first being acquainted with the place," says this writer, in the 'Miseries of a Prison,' "the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea.
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