‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "Where did you get this from?" asked Wild, greatly surprised at the result of his investigation. "By G—! she has missed her footing. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. It’s your way of glossing over the ethical position. ’ ‘I’ve a good mind to leave the pair of you to it and take myself off,’ threatened his junior, marching across the room and snatching up a decanter.
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