"I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. "I don't know his name. White and Miss Ellicot laid each a hand upon his arm, one on either side. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him.
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