Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. "Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. Every slight action is influenced by what he imagines would be the opinion of other people.
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