"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. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things.
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