He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. Their conversation hung. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. We are linked together in this matter, and must go through with it.
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