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He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. It feels like it. I’ve bored you or something.
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