She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. ‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword. “And you brought her a man, I presume. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet.
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