I am glad he is gon, a put me to the blush When a did aske me of ritch Somerfields death.

It is also about the mutedness of the monasteries' awareness of the wider society of the Old Regime.

Sometimes he pursued the wily burn trout with relentless ferocity and the silent intentness of a sleuthhound. Often, however, he would pause and with his finger indicate some favourite stone to Winsome.

What he did know was this: something about the situation smelled wrong. Something about it smelled as high as dead fish that have spent three days in the hot sun.