Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!” The man stepped into the middle of the room. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. "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.
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