On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. That was something in his favour. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. "We have cured his obstinacy, you perceive," he added to Marvel. Trenchard glanced at the document. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. “John, we should be getting out of here.
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