The loveliest woman Angela had ever seen--tall, built like a
goddess--walked on the King's right hand. She carried a heap of broken
bread in the satin petticoat which she held up over one white arm, while
with her other hand she gave the pieces one by one to the King. Angela
saw that as each hunch changed hands the royal fingers touched the lady's
tapering finger-tips and tried to detain them.
Fareham took off his hat, bowed low in a grave and stately salutation, and
passed on; but Charles called him back.
"Nay, Fareham, has the world grown so dull that you have nothing to tell us
this November morning?"
"Indeed, sir, I fear that my riverside hermitage can afford very little
news that could interest your Majesty or these ladies."
"A fox gone to ground, an otter killed among your reeds, or a hawk in the
sulks, is an event in the country. Anything would be a relief from the
weekly total of London deaths, which is our chief subject of conversation,
or the General's complaints that there is no one in town but himself to
transact business, or dismal prophecies of a Nonconformist rebellion that
is to follow the Five Mile Act."
The group of ladies stared at Angela in a smiling silence, one haughtier
than the rest standing a little aloof.
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