The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. "Now—begin. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. ” Sydney looked at her doubtfully. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. ’ A little sigh escaped her.
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