She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Louis the Fourteenth yet lived, and expectations were, therefore, indulged of assistance from France. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. 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. It’s just upon my lunch-time. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. .
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