Then she proceeded to unpack the little basket.
'This is for the love-feast,' said Sinfi.
'You mean betrothal feast,' I said. 'But who are the lovers?'
'You and the livin' mullo that you made me draw for you by my crwth
down by Beddgelert--the livin' mullo o' Winnie Wynne.'
'At last then,' I said to myself, 'I know the form the mania has
taken. It is not her own betrothal, but mine with Winnie's wraith,
that is deluding her crazy brain. How well I remember telling her how
I had promised Winnie as a child to be betrothed by Knockers' Llyn.
Poor Sinfi! Mad or sane, her generosity remains undimmed.'
Before the breakfast cloth could be laid--indeed before the basket
was unpacked--she asked me to look at my watch, and on my doing so
and telling her the time, she jumped up and said, 'It's later than I
thought. We must lay the cloth arterwards.' She then placed me in
that same crevice overlooking the tarn whence Winnie had come to me
on that morning.
Knockers' Llyn, it will perhaps be remembered, is enclosed in a
little gorge opening by a broken, ragged fissure at the back to the
east.
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