“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. "I was at Tyburn. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn.
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