“A lucky day for the boy.”
“And for me. We are more than quits. I am here in England.” And he glanced at her as though he had meant more than he had said.
Barbara cherished her reserve.
“It was in the autumn of 1675 that you sailed,” she said.
“No, earlier than that.”
“I remember the year well.”
“It was in June, not in the autumn.”
“I remember every month of that year, because it was the year that my father died.”
She spoke calmly, yet he was startled by the expression of her face. It shone white in the half-gloom of the evening under the yews, the eyes gleaming out from it with a dull fire.
“The month was June; I am sure of that.”