“No, I administered poisons to you according to the ancient tradition. "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. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. I’ve got imagination. “Listen,” she said.
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