I’ve just seen him. Spit of your mother. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. He is in Newgate. " His demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle; and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer.
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