The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "I'll make myself intelligible before I've done," rejoined Wild. Spurlock. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. She turned her head away sharply.
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