The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. Alderman Dunstable, of the Borough Council of Marylebone. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken.
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