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What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he passed

           Theplacewasintolerablydirty,andthesmelloftobaccosmokeperfectlysuffocating.Therewasaperpetualslammingandbangingofdoorsasthepeoplewentinandout;andthenoiseoftheirvoicesandfootstepsechoedandre-echoedthroughthepassagesconstantly.Ayoungwoman,withachildinherarms,whoseemedscarcelyabletocrawl,fromemaciationandmisery,waswalkingupanddownthepassageinconversationwithherhusband,whohadnootherplacetoseeherin.AstheypassedMr.Pickwick,hecouldhearthefemalesobbitterly;andoncesheburstintosuchapassionofgrief,thatshewascompelledtoleanagainstthewallforsupport,whilethemantookthechildinhisarms,andtriedtosootheher.

           Mr.Pickwick’sheartwasreallytoofulltobearit,andhewentupstairstobed.

           Now,althoughthewarder’sroomwasaveryuncomfortableone(being,ineverypointofdecorationandconvenience,severalhundreddegreesinferiortothecommoninfirmaryofacountyjail),ithadatpresentthemeritofbeingwhollydesertedsavebyMr.Pickwickhimself.So,hesatdownatthefootofhislittleironbedstead,andbegantowonderhowmuchayearthewardermadeoutofthedirtyroom.

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