Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Here, according to another old custom, already alluded to, a criminal taken to execution was allowed to halt at a tavern, called the Crown, and take a draught from St. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Walpole, and then to Newgate.
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