Let me recommend a glass of wine. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. I would that you were my own. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. And not a worthy tome in sight. Only she hadn’t. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. Sheppard left Mr. . .
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