CHAPTER XVIII. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. ‘Come, cry a truce. " "Well," observed Hogarth, "if, fettered as you are, you contrive to break out of this dungeon, you'll do what no man ever did before. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it.
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