[Razor-engine-discuss] s. Young Courtenay,

[Dupont M. <unr...@cf...>]

Finding of the sleeves as a bad job; after a futile effort to discover
their whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits beside
him, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysart
makes her feel even colder. If he had been there! Would she be thus
roughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark for
tenderest care, a precious charge entrusted to his keeping. A thing
beloved and therefore to be cherished. "Look there," says she, suddenly
lifting her head and pointing a little to the right. "Surely, even
through this denseness, I see lights. Is it a village?" "Yes--a village,
I should say," grimly. "A hamlet rather. Would you," ungraciously,
"suggest our seeking shelter there?" "I think it must be the village
called 'Falling,'" says she, too pleased at her discovery to care about
his gruffness, "and if so, the owner of the inn there was an old servant
of my father's. She often comes over to see Barbara and the children,
and though I have never come here to see her, I know she lives somewhere
in this part of the world. A good creature she is. The kindest of
women." "An inn," says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old
servant, the innkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she keeps
an inn. "What a blessed oasis in our wilderness! And it can't be more
than half a mile away. Why," recovering his usual delightful manner, "we
shall find ourselves housed in no time. I do hope,