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FORE:The house was swimming in the light of the western moon. Its strange curves and bulges, its kiln-shaped ends, and great waving sprawl of roof all shone in a white glassy brilliance, which was somehow akin to peace. There was a soft flutter of wind in the orchard and in the sentinel poplars, while now and then came that distant night-purged scrap of song:"Shut the Common to wenchers!"
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FORE:"Peace, profane jester!" said the monk. "Baron of Sudley, do you believe that this is the son thy lady mourned?""My lord," returned Skipwith, with a slight smile, "know you so little of Edward as to imagine that no change could pass in his royal mind without the monk being privy to it?"
November 2015
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