’ Grudgingly, the sergeant shifted aside and allowed her access to the stairs, grumbling to her retreating back, ‘If I’d me way, missie, I’d send you back to France where you ought never to have come away from, if you arst me. We're lost. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. “Why?” he asked, suavely. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth.
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