“John, don’t!” she cried. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that.
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