“I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. "To Newgate," cried Jonathan, putting his head out of the window. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. ” The hand lingered too long. I don’t conceal it.
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