She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. . Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head.
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