So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. "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. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. ” “It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week—for drudgery.
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