Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. "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. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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