The
door to the archway banged open and the three lads startled. They looked at each other sheepishly; it was
only Treasurer Fogg. “Gentlemen,” Fogg
nodded at the lads. “Mrs. Sprye, my
light and joy,” he said as he bent to kiss her upturned cheek.
“Foggy come a’courting, he did ride,” Stephen sang, sotto voce.
Ben and Tom chuckled. Tom
wondered why it was the highest poetry when youths and maids fell in love but
basest comedy when persons of middle years did the same. Their lumpish figures, he supposed. And their appalling lack of shame.
(from Murder By
Misrule by Anna Castle)
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