The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. On the death of his royal patron, he resolved to return to his own country; and, after various delays, which had postponed it to the present time, he had succeeded in accomplishing his object. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. Even her debt to him was a triviality now.
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