"I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed.
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