Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. . The pouting cherry lips were slightly parted and the very faintest of panting breaths, together with the quick rise and fall of an alluring bosom, betrayed her fear. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Still, one never could tell.
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