The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. "But this need give you no uneasiness," pursued Jonathan; "Mrs. He’s waiting. " This frankness rather subdued Spurlock. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink.
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