The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. "He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's attire. You had better go to bed. ’ ‘Ah yes. ’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood. ” “I am afraid,” she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, “that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. .
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