“—Act III, Scene 3 Gray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach. For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter. Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, takin...g a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them. Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails. They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb. At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back. She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair by a blazing fire.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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