‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. 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. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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