The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. “It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place.
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