On Sunday, he was conveyed to the chapel, through which he had passed on the occasion of his great escape, and once more took his seat in the Condemned Pew. ‘But I was not there. I can be that man, the one I know you want. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. I'll remember that. Wild is a friend of yours, I'm sorry for what I said.
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