The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety. In regard to yourself, you've had a very narrow escape. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked.
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