82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. “John, don’t!” she cried. "No, I don't. ” “I wish you would use my Christian name,” he said. "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. We’ll go. I’m not such a bad sort. This is your choice.
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