There was no one stirring in the flats. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. “Because I hate you!” She spat. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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