The latch came with a weak click. 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. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor.
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