and no wonder, by Christ.
I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.
―It’s Stephen, sir.
―Let him in. Let Stephen in.
A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.
―We thought you were someone else.
In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.
―Morrow, nephew.
He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum . A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde’s Requiescat . The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.