It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly.
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