She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. “It isn’t fair. ‘Many things he taught me. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. The man could put a bullet through her before she could hope to reach any one of them. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. My death, probably. And don't neglect my instructions this time.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTM1LjE4Mi43OSAtIDIyLTA3LTIwMjQgMTI6MTY6MTAgLSAxNDA1NTcxMTM1
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