" "On that night, you first met me, love," said Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to take his hand, which he coldly withdrew. The knife is at my breast. The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. Ennison will make a thousand enemies if he takes you from the stage.
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