But let my Triall, be mine owne Confession: / Immediate sentence then, and sequent death, / Is all the grace I beg.

He just looks at me and says: ‘Fill your hand stranger’ and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off across Lincoln Park, bullets cutting all around me.

His friend Finlay had returned from the West Indies, and, making a tour through England and Ireland, bent his steps to the North to revisit the scenes of his youthful gipsyings with Miller.

I asked her age.