The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Last week. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. When he said, “Let’s go and see the wart-hog,” she thought no one ever had had so quick a flow of good ideas as he; and when he explained that sugar and not buns was the talisman of popularity among the animals, she marvelled at his practical omniscience. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. She wished she had not stood up.
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