’ Jack gasped. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life.
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