A week later, tired and hungry, Shaxper trudged into London with only a crumpled letter of introduction in his pocket. He was more determined than ever to succeed, having had plenty of time to convince himself that surviving the robbery was a confirmation of Divine Intervention.
Taking a deep breath, he joined the hurly-burly in the crowded streets, the familiar stench of the city once again filling his nostrils. He avoided looking at the severed heads on London Bridge, their jaws agape with death, a stern warning to all treasonous Catholics. He made a mental note to keep his mouth shut and emulate those who survived.
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