I spent this afternoon in detention. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. "Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. With nobody who cares … the both of us!" He was real in this moment.
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