"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. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. ‘That’s a loud one. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service.
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