"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. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it. She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. ” (Fifteen pounds.
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