” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. "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. ‘En effet, it is for this that I was enquiring of this man if he has pen and paper. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. Wood became sensible that he was not alone.
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