“John?” He turned around in the recliner. "You are arrested for high treason," rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,—"here is my warrant. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday.
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