" "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. But, as this produced no effect, and did not even elicit a groan, the prisoner was carried back to Newgate.
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