"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. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. But here the resemblance stopped. Borrow. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. 1.
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