The mob now directed their attention to Newgate; and, from their threats, appeared determined to fire it. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. "A fall against Newgate is accounted a sign of death by the halter," replied Wild, with ill-disguised malignity.
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