Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. "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 one problem was that it didn’t fly. At length Jack Sheppard observed:—"The coast's clear. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation.
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