Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. Certainly not a gentlewoman. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. ToC Monday, the 31st of August 1724,—a day long afterwards remembered by the officers of Newgate,—was distinguished by an unusual influx of visitors to the Lodge. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. ‘And me, I am a lady.
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