The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. “You are in trouble,” he said. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. Come, make yourself scarce. ” She said. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. ‘Do not tell me he has escaped.
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