“More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. A widow for the fourth time, Mrs. 1. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either.
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