Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you.
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