I fought. Kneebone!" "That you would not accept him were he to offer—" "Be silent, Sir. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. I said to myself at once, ‘Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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