" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either. He will not provide for the daughter.
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