FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. “You have the ideas. ‘He is not in England, you understand. Take, if you please, your own pistol. . ’ She struggled. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer.
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