She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. ‘No! Let me alone!’ ‘It is not safe!’ ‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders.
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