Printing was man’s work. Each sheet was impressed separately, but with clever typesetting and layout a sheet could carry eight pages of text. Master...Heathcoate passed the printed sheets to be cut and sewn into signatures for binding by a worker in fine leathers at the bindery in the next street.“Yes, Master Heathcoate,” said Amélie.“I do, too, sir,” added Sandrine.“Know your letters, do you? That’s what your father told me. Is that true?”The two women nodded.“You as well, Sandrine?” Heathcoate. ..I can tell you've done this before...haven't you, you old fucker..." She was absolutely right, of course. Normally a friend's Wife or even Daughter, would sometimes ask me in hushed tones, something like, "Erm...I've heard some rumours...are they true"? They would often be a little embarrassed, probably blushing a little too? I'd smile softly and gently holding their wrist, I would drop their hand into my lap and close their fingers around the meat in my trousers! On one occasion, my friends. More

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