His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. —Strype's Stow. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery.
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