"To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. The mode of destruction makes no difference.
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