"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Presently. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. It’s only as if I’d begun to know you the day before yesterday or there-abouts.
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