"That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. My birth certificate was destroyed when the county building it was housed in burned down. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. “Do you hear!” she said “whatever you are, wherever you are! I will not be slave to the thought of any man, slave to the customs of any time. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill.
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