He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. Brown broke the silence. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. If he escapes at all, it must be before our faces. He’s a footman who works for the nuns and has taken up the cudgels on her behalf. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.
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