Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “I’m not going to kill you, John. Posts were offered to all who chose to accept them. He lives near the Black Lion.
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