Jur

The bridegroom, about twenty winters — son of the dyer Krecz and Wisza, hands dyed to the elbows and in a jerkin already too small. Straightforward, a touch too loud, with a heart of gold: he carries, he hauls, he brings apples. He says too much at once, his sentences trip over themselves, and beside his stiff father-in-law Sten he falls silent — or says one sentence too many. He marries Lija at the wedding in the guildhall.