\" Lucy replied. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising.
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