His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. She would have to leave very soon.
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