He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. . Death belongs to God, young man. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants. “Come,” he continued, “the world after all is a very small place. It’s Providence. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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