’ ‘All the way to England?’ She opened wide eyes. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls.
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