"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. . The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. As such, you may command the sympathies of the gentry.
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