She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. He knocked at the door. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow.
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