‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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