Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. " "Don't go near him, dear Thames," said Winifred; "he may have some ill intention. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. I just wanted a breath of air. He had not remembered her as looking so small. It’s just that I want to say. Neither of them believed me. A ball from Wild's pistol passed through his heart, and a volley of musketry poured from the guards lodged several balls in the yet breathing body of his leader. There will be no avoiding it.
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