"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. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. Their example was immediately imitated by the officers, constables, javelin men, and other attendants; and nothing was to be heard but shouts of laughter and jesting,—nothing seen but the passing of glasses, and the emptying of foaming jugs. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. " There was no danger in admitting this fact.
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