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He struck a match and, holding it up, standing straight, the master, all unconscious for once in his deprecating life of the Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he discovered that the thatch above the horse-manger was fairly waterproof. "Come on! Up on the edge of the manger, Istra," he ordered. "This is a perfectly good place for a murder," she grinned, as they sat swinging their legs.
He pressed his cheek against the comforting hollow of her curving shoulder and rested there, abandoned to a forlorn and growing happiness, the happiness of getting so far outside of his tight world of Wrennishness that he could give comfort and take comfort with no prim worried thoughts of Wrenn. Istra murmured: "Perhaps that's what I need some one to need me. Only " She stroked his hair.
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