The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it. ” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. dear. . Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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