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. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. ‘Then I am not mad in the least. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. That’s why we are here. No lights were flashing, and a single squad car was not a cause for alert, as sometimes the Becks allowed squads to use their drive to watch for speeders and other reckless drivers. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. Listen, Jack. Tell me why you ran away from the convent. D.
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