ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. Vite, I pray you. “I did it for love of you,” he said. Damn! I’ve splashed.
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