Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man.
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