Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. I wish that it worked. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination.
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