A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. "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. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men.
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