“Very well, miss, to the jail it is.” He steps aside, opens the carriage door, and helps me climb in, gently holding the edge of my long black skirt. It is the façade of mourning I must wear. The carriage shakes as he takes his place on the driver"s bench. My hands shake as they grip the book I grasp so tightly in my hand. The book I bring to Ginevra.
It is a short journey along the full northern portion of Bellevue Avenue onto Spring Street and around the corner to Marlborough Street. The solid square building looks daunting, frightening, as it should for a jail. Bricks painted white does little to dispel the impression. It stands beside the First Methodist Episcopal Church of Newport. I wonder if those trapped within can see its tall bell tower, if looking at it brings any solace. I hop
