" "This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. 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. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. I should have gone mad without it. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city.
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