The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity.
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