The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. ‘He was our first commander, and a more stiff-necked—’ ‘Exactly so,’ concurred Lady Bicknacre. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. She thought Alice a bit of a sneak, an opinion her brothers shared, and Gwen rather a snatch at meals. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent.
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