I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. "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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