"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. No one will ever love you as I love you now. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. In an instant, she turned on him. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. " "Very right, my love," said Wood, "very sensibly remarked. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. But me, I am going to England.
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