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. She had never heard anything so unholy. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. She wore a wonderful dress of turquoise blue, made by a great dressmaker for a function which she knew very well now that she would never attend. I've despatched him to the New Prison.
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