The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. ‘It is not possible. “In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it.
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