B. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. His father and mother are gone now. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Meantime, the Stone Hall was crowded by all the inmates of the jail, debtors, felons, turnkeys, and officers who could obtain permission to witness the ceremony of the prisoner's irons being struck off. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. ‘That’s a loud one.
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