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The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. ” She watched his face as he traced his way through these speculative thickets. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. The man pulled up. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning.
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