"Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. They had been married for well over one hundred years. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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