The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood, receiving the little burthen with a laugh. He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand.
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