Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in the way. There will be a world that exists after this Pestilence, and for you, it will mean the wealth from those you extend your current generosity to. Beyond that everything was nebulous. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Kneebone took his leave.
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