On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. "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 honey on his tongue turned to ashes. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street.
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