On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. "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. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. " He had now gained the high road.
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