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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

'
'Move forward!'
'--Unless,' said Hugh, glancing hurriedly back,--'unless any person here
has a fancy for a dog; and not then, unless he means to use him well.
There's one, belongs to me, at the house I came from, and it wouldn't
be easy to find a better. He'll whine at first, but he'll soon get over
that.--You wonder that I think about a dog just now, he added, with a
kind of laugh. 'If any man deserved it of me half as well, I'd think of
HIM.'
He spoke no more, but moved onward in his place, with a careless air,
though listening at the same time to the Service for the Dead, with
something between sullen attention, and quickened curiosity. As soon as
he had passed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the
crowd beheld the rest.
Barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time--indeed he would
have gone before them, but in both attempts he was restrained, as he
was to undergo the sentence elsewhere. In a few minutes the sheriffs
reappeared, the same procession was again formed, and they passed
through various rooms and passages to another door--that at which the
cart was waiting. He held down his head to avoid seeing what he knew his
eyes must otherwise encounter, and took his seat sorrowfully,--and yet
with something of a childish pride and pleasure,--in the vehicle.


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