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. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. “This stirs one. Sir John stood upon the threshold. This done, he let himself carefully down by it, and having only a few feet to drop, alighted in safety. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. . He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked.
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