She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. “Come on. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. Oh! that I should live to be father-in-law to a peer of France! What would my poor wife say to it, if she could come to life again? Oh, Thames!—my lord marquis, I mean—you have made me the happiest—the proudest of mankind. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. Master, your humble servant. Buck up. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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