If you love me, do not allude to this subject again. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. “I want you to kiss me,” she said. He glanced up at the coachman. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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