"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. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. After all, life had still its pulsations. ‘But I have told you.
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