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. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. “I told you I did not love you. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. I tried.
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