nineveh_uk

(OR what happens when Our Narrator ponders how the works of Dorothy L. Sayers would sound if they were televised with period accents)

They made their way through the market square, picking through the piles of manure to cries of “ ‘Appen, vitnery” from the flat-capped farmers.

“It’s funny we should be here talking like this, Peter” said James. “When I think of that dreadful time in Riddlesdale, when we could find nothing to say to one another but comparisons of Norfolk and Pennine sheep diseases, and the agricultural depression.”

“Yes.” They passed the pub to a wave from old Mr Thwaite on his sixteenth pint. “You may have noticed,” said Wimsey, a little abruptly, “that I have said a great deal these last few days, one way or another, but that since I have been in Darrowby I have not asked you to marry me.”

“Yes. I had noticed that.”

“I have been afraid,” he said, “because I knew that from anything you said here there could be going back. But I will ask you now. Herriot, you know that I love you. Will you marry me?”