*Angel*
The next day, I decide that perhaps I've been too hasty in my dismissal of poetry.
After lunch, I change into a dark blue riding habit and head to the stables. Inspired by Eames's recitation the night before, I take with me a slim volume of Wordsworth's poetry.
My plan is to find a grassy hillside and settle down to read, but I have a feeling that I won't be able to stop myself from steering my mare toward Blemwood Park, no, Brinstead Manor... drat, why can’t I remember the name of that place? Whatever it's called, it's where Eames lives, and I want to go there.
I urge my mare into a trot, breathing in the fresh autumn air as I head east toward Eames's property. I have absolutely no idea what I'll say if I run into him. Probably something stupid; I seem to ramble on more than
