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“But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. "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. ‘But then again, possibly not.
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