It was 1582. "I was at Tyburn. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. " She sent a covert glance toward the young man. ” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. I daresay you have the whole thing wrong, Gerald.
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