When he smiled, he looked not like a lover but a kid brother. “Susan?” he called, low. Beyond it, the square of dusty dooryard gleamed like a canopy of tarnished silver. Each had been rimmed with a thin iron strip.
“Thee did, didn’t thee? Aye! Perhaps thee even gave him the knife he used, after runnin yer lips o’er it for good luck. ”“Aye, that’s a diplomatic turn o’ speech for ye,” Jonas said in a broad Mejis accent. “Although what Farson decides is none o’ mine. “Ye like it, don’t ye?” Jonas asked, putting on a hick Hambry accent.
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