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As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. The latter began to heave himself up from the sand. You called yourself a murderess. “I want to have no distractions. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. I cannot do it, David. 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. But this I cannot do. “What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly.
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