Kneebone, and feeling certain of capturing him if he did so, Shotbolt, on quitting Newgate, hurried to the New Prison to prepare for the enterprise. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand.
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