She was gone. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. ‘Bon. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. “You love some one else?” he repeated. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. You are my prisoner, murderer. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours.
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