This time you cannot. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. "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. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished.
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