But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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