8. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "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. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. E.
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