Another long interval elapsed. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. The occasion of all this confusion and dismay, meanwhile, remained perfectly motionless; his figure erect, and with somewhat of dignity in his demeanour. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. "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. ” “Not in the least,” Anna answered calmly.
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