\" She looked at Mike. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. Was the situation so desperate that he could not pack his best things? She had packed lightly, not wanting to weigh down the carriage they would travel in. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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