’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. I don’t quite know why. Smith: "ho! ho!" "How condescending!" thought Mrs. "Prisoner at the bar," thus ran the sentence, "you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment.
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