The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. Notwithstanding the remonstrances of Wood and Winifred, Thames instantly followed the domestic, and found a man, with his face muffled up, at the door, as she had described. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. Well, you shall know. You see—I didn’t understand. The pouting cherry lips were slightly parted and the very faintest of panting breaths, together with the quick rise and fall of an alluring bosom, betrayed her fear. It is not at all comme il faut.
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