e.

He puckered up his deprecatory and comical lips as he imagined that
that medal would purchase him the right to sigh dolorously in front of
whatever stomacher it finally adorned. He could pour out odes in the
learned tongue, for the space of a week, a day, or an afternoon
according to the rank, the kindness or the patience of the recipient.

Something invisible and harsh touched his cheek. It might have been
snow or hail. He turned his thin cunning face to the clouds, and they
threatened a downpour. They raced along, like scarves of vapour, so
low that you might have thought of touching them if you stood on
tiptoe.

If he went to Westminster Hall to find Judge Combers, he would get his
belly well filled, but his back wet to the bone. At the corner of the
next hedge was the wicket gate of old Master Grocer Badge. There the
magister would find at least a piece of bread, some salt and warmed
mead. Judge Combers' wife was easy and bounteous: but old John Badge's
daughter was a fair and dainty morsel.

He licked his full lips, leered to one side, muttered, 'A curse on all
lords' porters,' and made for John Badge's wicket. Badge's dwelling
had been part of the monastery's curing house. It had some good rooms
and two low storeys--but the tall garden wall of the Lord Privy Seal
had been built against its side windows. It had been done without word
or warning. Suddenly workmen had pulled down old Badge's pigeon house,
set it up twenty yards further in, marked out a line and set up this
high wall that pressed so hard against the house end that there was
barely room for a man to squeeze between. The wall ran for half a
mile, and had swallowed the ground of twenty small householders. But
never a word of complaint had reached the ears of the Privy Seal other
than through his spies. It was, however, old Badge's ceaseless grief.
He had talked of it without interlude for two years.

* * * * *

The Badges' room--their houseplace--was fair sized, but so low ceiled
that it appeared long, dark and mysterious in the winter light There
was a tall press of dark wood with a face minutely carved and fretted
to represent the portal of Amiens Cathedral, and a long black table,
littered with large sheets of printed matter in heavy black type, that
diffused into the cold room a faint smell of ink. The old man sat
quavering in the ingle. The light of the low fire glimmered on his
silver hair, on his black squ