She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. You may well say it's impossible! His Majesty's jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave.
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