It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. Stop! we must shut the door, or they'll catch us. Brendon felt his arm seized. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day.
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