"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. ‘That’s a loud one. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses. He had thought it might have that effect. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision.
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