But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—now it was different; now it was dawn—the real dawn. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. I think John 42 will be there.
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