A fortnight has passed.

Two Sundays, two Mondays, two Tuesdays, etc.
Fourteen times have I sleepily laid head on pillow.

Fourteen times have I yawningly raised it from my pillow.

Fourteen times have I hungrily eaten my dinner, since the night when I stood in the hall with Sir Roger's hand in mine, raging against my parent.

And Sir Roger is here still.