Goodbye. Go on. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. 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. Wild had escaped. I am no exception. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure.
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