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December 8, 1677


My faith in Sean's good fortune was misplaced. Three evenings past a villanous rogue knocked him on the noggin - which, given the broad, flat and pleasingly level surface presented to the assailant, must have been a temptation the most reformed of bandits could not pass up - and then robbed him of his last nine pence.  He has been laid up in bed since, on strict orders.  The Physician tells me he's healing quite nicely, but I still speak gravely of his situation because it makes Jack flutter about so.  In truth, Jack has shown more genuine concern for this  half-wit of an adopted Irish cur, one who is largely given to drink and mean violence, than he did for (at least) the first of his wives.  (In fairness to Jack she was also largely given to drink and violence, and finger-wagging besides.)

I do not think this the work of Sean's usual tormentor: he seems more inclined to kill rather than clomp, and he would have known, were he intending to rob Sean, that Sean entering the Griffin has far more coin on him than Sean coming out. But to Sean the falling crowns, rampaging barrels, and blows to the head are all the same, and I do not blame him for the harsh words he has muttered about our great City.  In his short while here, London has not been kind to him.


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