ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. There was nothing to be got out of the man. "No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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