‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. You can have no shecrets from me. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Smith's melody had subsided. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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