Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. “I shot him. She turned up dead after about eight weeks and it broke my heart. At present, he is under the protection of Jonathan Wild. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. I don’t care.
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