There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. ‘You make a game with me, I think. Capes? Well, think what it must be to live in them—soul and mind and body! It’s fun for a man to jest at our position. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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