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. “Is it your maid?” he asked. Still, they bob up occasionally. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit.
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