Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right.
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