The red-lidded eyes behind the eyelet-holes in the linen looked capable of expressing nothing but fleshly things.
“Supper,” he said, curtly.
“Well, you’ll wait for it. Quick, you fool, the liquor’s running over.”
He turned and put a hand to the spigot, muttering as a rivulet of good ale curled across the floor.
“All your tongue, as usual.”
“It’s always my tongue, Sim, and never your lumpishness. Wipe that slop up; I’m not going to soil my shoes in it.”
He obeyed her, and then sat himself on the three-legged stool before the fire, taking the jug with him, and standing it on the hearth.
“There’s comfort in the stuff,” he said, sullenly.
The woman gave a sharp laugh.
“Courage, you mean, you six feet and a half of fat and folly! You would run away from it all but for me.”