‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. I don't want her hurt. ’ With pretty imperiousness, she gestured to the bed beside her. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. It was the gallows. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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