The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. Melusine shrugged. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him.
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