Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles—
those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets,
and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here
rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged
that the merchant may go hoop for his money," A less picturesque, but more
truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is
furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the
"Delectable History of Whittington's College," that "When the prisoners are
disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room,
called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would
puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the
beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a
spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion
here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare. Clarice was from Lombardy,
fair-haired and light skinned. The prisoner, however, submitted
more quietly than was anticipated. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the
wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. It’s my other side of the
moon. He got
out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before
she could open the door. “How’d you know it was me?”
He looked
conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants.
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This video was uploaded to m.damaulifm.org on 04-07-2024 08:48:45