But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. Smith obeyed. His fatigue was tacitly understood within the family; it was a phenomenon which everyone acknowledged as related to the trades. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him.
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