"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. Perhaps because I don’t know. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. ’ ‘I’m not going to release you, so it’s no use complaining. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo.
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