I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes.
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