#369645 - One hundred lashes, I said harshly. And where do I sleep? she asked insolently. You are the bastard son of the Reverend Hywell Thomas, she sniggered, The monk the sodomite! she added, You have no right to judge me! My lord! the clerk said, Shall I have her whipped? No, not yet, I cautioned, Say your fill wench, out with it for you'll be listened to little enough in the antipodes.
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