"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. A rock gave way to deep water. He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies.
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