Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it.
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