Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether.
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