‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. It was a capital diversion; and as usual the Leatherneck bested the Britisher, in seven rounds. FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life.
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