Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging.
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