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. "Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. "I would treat him as you treated his father, Sir Rowland. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile.
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