“Mr. Wood in the deepest mourning. He had little money about him, and unless friends come to his aid he must be treated as a pauper. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first.
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