"Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice. She did not have the power of men. "I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. I understand. I awaken easily. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. I’m very resourceful, you know. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators.
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