Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. “A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction.
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