Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. The evenings were dulcet and soft. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession. "Leave him to me," he said. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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