ToC Tyburn was now at hand. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. It dealt with fine aspects of Mr. Bon. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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