She hurried with Jack as fast as she could to the open door to the passage. Get a license—just an idea of mine. She continued to fan herself. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound.
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