“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Give me the books.
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