That boat she sunk lower an' lower, but all the
Widow could see in it was her boys movin' hampered-
like to get at the tackle. Up sail they did, an' away they
went, deep as a Rye barge, away into the off-shore
mists, an' the Widow Whitgift she sat down an' eased
her grief till mornin' light.'
'I never heard she was all alone,' said Hobden.
'I remember now. The one called Robin, he stayed with
her, they tell. She was all too grieevious to listen to his promises.'
'Ah! She should ha' made her bargain beforehand. I
allus told my woman so!'Hobden cried.
'No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan, bein' as
she sensed the Trouble on the Marshes, an' was simple
good-willin' to ease it.' Tom laughed softly. 'She done
that. Yes, she done that! From Hithe to Bulverhithe,
fretty man an' maid, ailin' woman an' wailin' child, they
took the advantage of the change in the thin airs just
about as soon as the Pharisees flitted. Folks come out
fresh an' shinin' all over the Marsh like snails after
wet. An' that while the Widow Whitgift sat grievin'
on the Wall. She might have belieft us - she might
have trusted her sons would be sent back! She
fussed, no bounds, when their boat come in after three days.
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