He lifted them, looked at them, put them down again. George fanned a hand in front of his face. Were they going in there a few days from now? Actually going in, riding to within mere yards of where that cursed puddle started? He couldn’t believe it . The Kissing Moon, mayhap.
Jonas’s white hair, untied today, lay over his shoulders. ’Twouldn’t. ’Tis not forever, and, as Aunt Cord says, I may still marry, if time and ka decree; I should not be the first woman to come to her husband’s bed as a mother. “And stay away from that thing,” he said, pointing at the instrument which looked like a cross between a piano and a harpsichord.
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