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. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. Good-bye aunt. "The nurses," she answered. "Nothing more than this," answered Kneebone,—"that after the failure of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since, entirely secluded from the world. “In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. He laughed reassuringly.
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