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He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. I—I hurt myself. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked.
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