About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—"Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated," observes Ned Ward, "I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round. Nice position. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. "Is your father alive?" "No," returned Thames; "he was assassinated while I was an infant. “I don’t know. " "So he is," returned Jack; "but there's no saying how long he may remain so.
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