" "Here's a pocket-book full of notes, and a heavy bag of gold," said Blueskin, examining the articles on the floor. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. "From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned are taken to Tyburn.
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