The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. "I did not know … that it was … like that!" She stepped back; but as his hands fell she caught and held them tightly. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do.
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