Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. "One motive alone shall induce me to go on with you," said Jack. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Her steps slowed. All her pride raged at me. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. He's the only native I trust in these parts.
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