The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "One of us has got to die," he panted. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. Do you know, I envy you. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady.
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