ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. What I said about your brat was all stuff.
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