“Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. It was not a difficult affair. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. Pitt, the then governor of Newgate.
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