Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. "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. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. She lied. . Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend.
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