—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. "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. He turned in at the club. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. I’d need to be out of my senses. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. The old aspect of the place was gone.
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