ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. It has been a real honeymoon trip, Annabel, for I feel that it has given me a wife. This man and he were alike, and about the same age.
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