The matron who accompanied me was a powerful, intelligent-looking woman of hard countenance and short speech.  I put a few stupid questions to her about the prison:  how many convicts they had, if the food was good, etc.

She asked me if I would care to see Mrs. Maybrick, an American criminal, who had been charged with murder, but sentenced for manslaughter.  This woman had poisoned her husband with mild insistence by arsenic, but, as he was taking this for his health at the time of his death, the evidence was conflicting as to where he stopped and she began.  She had the reputation of being a lady and beautiful; and petitions for her reprieve were sent to us signed by every kind of person from the United States.  I told the matron I would see her and was shown into her cell, where I found her sitting on a stool against a bleak desk, at which she was reading.  I noted her fine eyes and common mouth and, apologising, said: 

“I hope you will not mind a stranger coming to enquire how you are getting on,” adding, “Have you any complaints to make of the prison?”

The matron had left me and, the doors being thick, I felt pretty sure she could not hear what we were saying.

Mrs. Maybrick (shrugging her shoulders):  “The butter here is abominable and we are only given two books—­the pilgrim’s progress and the Bible—­and what do you say to our looking-glasses?” (Pointing to A little glass, four Inches big, in A deep thick frame hanging on A peg).  “Do you know why it is so small?”

Margot:  “No.”

Mrs. Maybrick:  “Because the women who want to kill themselves can’t get their heels in to break the glass; if they could they would cut their throats.  The men don’t have looking-glasses at all.”

Margot:  “Do you think they would like to have them?”

Mrs. Maybrick (shrugging her shoulders again and fingering her blue cotton blouse):  “I don’t suppose they care!  I’m sure no one could wish to see themselves with cropped hair and in these hideous clothes.”

Margot:  “I think that I could get you every kind of book, if you like reading, and will tell me what you want.”

Mrs. Maybrick (with a sudden laugh and looking at me with a contemptuous expression which made my heart ache):  “Oh, no, you couldn’t!  Never mind me!  But you might tell them about the butter.”

I did not find Mrs. Maybrick sympathique and shortly after this rejoined the matron.  It was the first time I had seen a prison and my heart and mind were moved as we went from cell to cell nodding to the grey occupants.

“Have you any very bad cases?” I asked.  “I mean any woman who is difficult and unhappy?”