The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “I just came to you and put myself in your hands. ” “Who seduced whom?” He asked impetuously. “You look great, Lucy. “And somehow or other,” she added, after a long interval, “I must pay Mr. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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