The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. It may bring us together again. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. "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. She heard him come in; the light burned on. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. “I did not,” Anna answered.
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