Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave.
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