Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. Smith's melody had subsided.
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