In the cells I had a few moments' conversation with her, but all I could get from her was the pitiful moan, "Why didn't they let me die?
why didn't they let me die ?" In a week's time I saw her again; surgical bandages were gone, medical attention and a week's food and rest had done something for her, but still she was the personification of misery.
I offered to take charge of her, and as she quietly promised not to repeat the attempt, the magistrate kindly committed her to my care.
So we went to her room: it was a poor place, and many steps we climbed before we entered it.

High up as the room was, and small as were its dimensions, she, out of the nine shillings she earned at the pickle factory paid three and sixpence weekly for it.

I had gathered from what she had told me that she was in poverty and distress.

So on our way I brought a few provisions; leaving these and a little money with her, I left her promising to see her again after a few days.

But before leaving she briefly told me her story, a sad, sad story, but a story to be read and pondered.
She was the only daughter of a City merchant, and had one brother.