She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. “Who decorated the school like this?” She asked, peering up at the multicolored banners that hung everywhere. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. It was Blueskin. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman.
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