This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. “Nothing so base. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. Still no sound. "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. I will return to Manchester at once. You won’t want to be late the first evening, and it’s ten minutes past seven now.
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