It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. However, come along.
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