The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. " Jack was about to comply; but not liking the man's manner, he walked on. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now.
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