Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. That’s all about it. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair.
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