Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “I’m next, Mr. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked.
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