Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust.
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