“No, no! A year, as we decided.”
She looked vaguely through the wasted tendrils of the dead beans as they clung to the sticks—looked in the direction of London. Jethro had once said carelessly London was that way, jerking his broad brown thumb widely. After that, she looked across the common whenever that chill thought of the prison stole in and numbed her brain.
“Come a little way along the road. If Gainah sees us she’ll call you in,” he said almost pleadingly. “I never get you to myself.”
He pulled out his turnip-like silver watch, which had been his grandfather’s, and added that he had ten minutes. Daborn was grooming the roan mare, ready to drive him in the dogcart to Liddleshorn.
“You might come too,” he said.
“No. Gainah would be angry.”
“You mustn’t think too much of her. After all, she’s a paid servant.”
“So am I.”
Her face, under the brim of her Panama hat, was arch and mournful at the same moment.
They went along the gravel path. Jethro took out his pocket-knife and cut off the head of a great plantain.