If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock.
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