Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. Suffer me to precede you. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. “Shut up, you little faggot. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. " And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression on the canvass.
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