"Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear.
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