“Some afternoon. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. Montague Hill is. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. A terrible spectacle was presented to the young man's gaze:—the floor deluged with blood—the mangled and lifeless body of Mrs. Wood. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. “I’ve heard some even more entertaining news from the Orchestra grapevine too. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. More importantly, she had her wits. Thames did not try to cheer her. . The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate.
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