FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. Giles's church, the bell of which continued tolling all the time, passed the pound, and entered Oxford Road, or, as it was then not unfrequently termed, Tyburn Road. The Reaper is not sated yet. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. "I give it to King James—not so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow.
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