As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. “She can’t go now. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. ” Rhea whispered. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. ‘Something in that, missie. ” She shook her fist ceilingward. She says to be home by one AM. He had heard nothing. Not so Gosse.
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