The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 332: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE MURDERESS d01 why do I now dwell upon it? Because it was the last time that Eugene Montgomery visited me; no doubt he was disgusted at the discovery that the rufhan was my husband. Since then all seemed to go ill with me: misfortunes accumu- lated rapidly, and I was enmeshed in the inextricable web of crime ere I had even a moment to pause and reflect upon what course I should pursue. Crime, yes, crime, — crime the most horrible, the most deadly, the most unpardonable! ”’ exclaimed the wretched woman, with thrilling accents of terror, anguish, and despair. ‘‘ Crime, ay, crime that will send me to the scaffold! Oh, that dreadful word — that shocking idea! Can it be that I am in my sound senses, that I have done all those things, and that I must hang, hang, hang upon the accursed gibbet? ”’ And the miserable woman’s voice rang piercingly through the cell, making the very air vocal with human agony. “The gibbet! ” she repeated, after a few moments’ pause, and her dress rustled as her entire frame shook from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet; ‘‘ the gibbet! Who breathed that frightful word in my ears? Ha! I remember! Yes, they were here ere now, those ghastly things that welcomed me amongst them. Holy God! am I then already looked upon as one dead? Is my coffin made, is my shroud sewn, is my grave dug? Yes, yes, they said it was so. But never, never will I perish on the scaffold! ’’ she suddenly exclaimed, with a wilder excitement as she sprang to her feet. “‘ What! to have the cord fastened around my neck by the rude hands of the executioner, to go forth upon the scaffold, to be gazed upon by thousands and thousands, and then to drop, to hang, and swing — Oh! no—no!”’ And the wretched woman clasped her hands together with all the violence of an excruciating anguish. But her excitement increased; it rose to a delirium — a frenzy of terrors. She tore her hair, she beat her bosom, she dashed her open palms violently against her brows as she gave vent to ejaculations of mingled despair and woe. Her grief was wild — her lamentations piteous. Through the dense darkness of the dungeon the scaffold loomed to her imagination. She saw it all, — yes, ail the dread parapher- nalia and procession of death, — the chaplain, the sheriffs, the executioner, and her own self, with the halter around her neck, COnnICLOOKS (S©)