‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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