"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. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. After rifling the room of everything portable, including some of Mrs. He has told me sufficient of you—" "My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake—" "I will speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; "I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—and what I think of her.
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