Long ago, she had learned that this was her lot--to wait in this safe haven until the menfolk came.
Fair or not, this was her fate, as the hours and days spun a lengthening thread, yet she was not idle as she waited. She bowed her dark head over her work, and her weaving slowly grew, inch by gleaming inch, the silken threads cunningly twined where the simplest pattern would have served.
Then suddenly, her waiting ended with the sound of shouting and booted feet. "Ye'r supper for Her Ladyship, you filthy tark!"
At last, the menfolk had come.
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