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~ary 1639<br > is sitting in a great chair under a cloth of estate， in<br >im hung with black velvet. She is dumpy， deep-bosomed and<br >~t~l acked as a trooper. Her cheeks are doughy with adversity<br > but her hazel eyes are clear. Dusk is falling outside in the<br >~t， and in the dim， candle-lit velvet cavern of the presence<br >ii i<br >~i~t~er her face， breast and hands shine dimly pale against the black<br >lid， her and the black of her dress. Of the tall man standing before<br >i~ in scholar s black broadcloth， nothing can be seen but the<br >~ starched-linen gleam of his collar and cuffs. The hand which<br >tJ his black beaver hat is invisible: as she peers into the gloom，<br >~ barely discern his face， let alone his expression. Only a sudden<br >V Bhifting in the gloom makes her realize， with a sudden qualm，<br >~she has been staring straight into his eyes. She turns her head<br >i~ settling the black silk scarf around her shoulders against the<br >~g chill of the Dutch winter， adjusting her rings.<br >~dl me a story， she says， her eyes downcast. Her voice ~s a strangely<br > one to come from so still and matronly a figure.<br > at story do you wish， your majesty? he responds. His voice is<br > and resonant， but husky， like the sound of a bell made of wood.<br >~ she does not look at him， and when she speaks her tone is<br > 1. Are there truly men in Africa whose heads do grow beneath<br > shoulders? <br >~I have not seen one， he says gravely.<br >~i0h，， I hoped it might be true. There is a phrase， is there not - "ex<br >~tica semper aliquid novi"? <br > It was Pliny， I believe， who said that. And perhaps it is true. There<br >
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