“Bad hemorrhage,” he said. He’ll survive. "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. Mike sat down, his body too large for the petite blue couch. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street.
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