It must be somewhere hereabouts. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. There’s no logic in these things. ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. After the day in the library, he constantly demonstrated his affections; Gianfrancesco had never done that. Now what I want you to feel is this.
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