. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. A lot of girls have had it in for him but he must be picky or something because he didn’t go to Junior Prom even though I know he got asked. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. I desire, Sir, you'll recollect yourself. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. She pointed suddenly at the portrait.
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