"In Canton. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “Who are you?” She asked innocently.
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