"Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. He had him removed from the Condemned Hold, stripped of his fine apparel, clothed in the most sordid rags, loaded with additional fetters, and thrust into the Stone Hold,—already described as the most noisome cell in the whole prison. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. Only three days. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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