"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 black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. I bent over him. That would come later. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London. At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl.
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