Annabel laughed a little uneasily. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. "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. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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