Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. “You might have given me a chance, anyway. The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon.
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