He was a ghost who haunted the family by sheer virtue of having existed.
“It’s not appropriate for a farmer’s wife. I never wear it and never will. Sell it. There is a multitude of things we need.”
“I’m fine, Claire.” Arms outstretched, Harold walked toward her. “Either hand me Junior or put down the knife.”
She nodded. “I am strong. I’m also clever.”
“Do you know any French, Harold?” she said after witnessing a particularly animated conversation between two burly men in greatcoats several decades out of fashion.
“Do you know any English?” Claire said, holding Junior as if the old lady might harm him. “The king’s English. You are an English subject, probably born into the Sun of England’s glory.”
“There may be a remedy.” He caressed her cheek. “You cannot go on like this. You need to drink, but you’re expelling everything you drink. And little Junior’s body is most vulnerable.”
“Humpt.” Claire stood and shook her finger at Bright who casually walked over to the couple. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Injuring your master.”
“That’s even more obvious. Your lack of knowledge I might attribute to ignorance, but your puffy eyes you cannot conceal or explain away.”