Monsieur is going inside perhaps?” But Sir John’s eyes were still riveted upon the poster, and his heart was beating with unaccustomed force. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “I believe it is. Miss Stanley reflected on this proposal for a moment.
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