‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. Once he chuckled aloud. He lives near the Black Lion. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark.
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