There was a young lad ahead of her. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. She might even forgive him. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. While this was taking place, another and more serious interruption occurred. Little by little, she stopped hating him. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. But it is the truth. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal.
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