“Look at it first, though,” said Mrs. Ashcroft feebly. “I’d like ye to look at it.”
Mrs. Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs. Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes.
“It do count, don’t it—de pain?” The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words.
Mrs. Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door.
[2] Hop-picking.
RAHERE
Rahere, King Henry’s Jester, feared by all the Norman Lords
For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed their swords;
Feed and flattered by the Churchmen—well they knew how deep he stood
In dark Henry’s crooked counsels—fell upon an evil mood.