I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. “I will not ask you to explain further. I knew where I would go next: Florence. The only safe place for him is at sea; and if he had kept to the sea, I shouldn't have found him so easily. ’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. Gentlemen,—Mr.
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