"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. Lucy slept in the same room as Shari, only ten feet away. Besides, I would tear out my tongue rather than let it speak her mother's infamy. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. I was his wife.
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