“I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. 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. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and began his perilous course. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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