Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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