He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. The advanced guard had endeavoured to disperse the mob in Field Lane, but were not prepared to meet with the resistance they encountered. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. ‘Major Gerald Alderley, I arrest you in the name of the King. I did not reckon upon—him. The militia offered little in the way of relief. And we'll see whether it won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino, and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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