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. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Killed is too kind a word.
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