Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. \"Didn't have any,\" replied Shari. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. "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. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. "A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in the world can't undo it. I was to blame to carry the matter so far.
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