The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. . 8. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. Well, kill me.
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