The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Sheppard. He deserves none. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. No, don’t let me call myself that.
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