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"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 rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Tell me that again. She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women.
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