‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. Sheppard's ward, Sir. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. Never. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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