“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. ‘You’re right. "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. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. I was rude and stupid.
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