Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. 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. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. It wasn’t long ago that a girl went straight from the farm to her husband, just as soon as her period came and she could make babies. Stanley changed his key. ‘Bon. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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