St. Giles in the Fields, John thought, breathing deep. It was good to recall the scent now and again; it made Sarah’s orange water all the sweeter.
These inhabitants did not spend money on lights before their doors. The little that lit the alleys seeped through skins stretched over windows, or from open doors—and most doors were open, to let out the stench. Every seventh house appeared to be an alehouse, varying from a single room with nothing but a trestle and a cask within, to larger taverns crammed with men and women. Before each, children begged for the coins that their parents would turn into liquor. Hands thrust at John, which he ignored; others grasped his coat, and were cast off. Behind the singsong of their plaints, came other music: fiddles, and flageolets. Clogs stomped on wood
