" "And never should again, were he mine," rejoined Jonathan. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. .
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