The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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