” She took a step. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. What was his problem, she thought to herself. He did everything. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. The months that followed September spiraled downward. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy.
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