One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. “It was my sister Anna. E. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. 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. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative.
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