Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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