This day rose before Terce, the rushes cold underfoot, and went alone to the solar where the book my father sent from Paris has been kept these three weeks unopened on account of the guests. I read there until the bell, the Latin coming slow in places but I have a dictionary of Thomas’s which helps. Agnes brought bread and I did not eat it. There was shouting in the yard, something to do with the new horses, and my brother came twice to the door but I did not answer. The fire went out and I sat in my cloak. At dinner my mother asked where I had been all morning and I said at my prayers which is near enough the truth.
>>25622521wake up anon, only fat hags, senile stumps, and jeets are left on /lit/
