Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. "During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped. But it was not so ordered.
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