"I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. I am the cause of his ill-usage. "' Instead of regarding him, Jack glanced over the iron bannisters, and measured the distance. You sent back my Christmas checks. Suddenly a half stifled exclamation broke from Anna’s lips.
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