. ’ He clenched his fists and grew red in the face. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. Wood. She interrupted.
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