FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life. Ah, these English! They travelled all over, up and down the world, not to acquire information but rather to leave the impress of their superiority as a race. "Have you sent off the note?" inquired Jack. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. "But first let us secure Sheppard. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. " "Ah! Now I can get a perspective. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night.
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