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. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. His advice was mostly practical. Wild. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. . Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. Ruth could not very well object, since an air of distinction would go with Taber. He is Jacques.
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