She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Sheppard—becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—provided he escaped the gallows—would descend to her son. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate.
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