How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. Blueskin goes with me. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. “She doesn’t know. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight.
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