’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. “Well, anyhow, consider it open. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried.
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