The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Heard voices. " "Is she alive?" repeated the widow. He was disquieted. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. .
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