She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. I have the right also to throw you out. Care for a hundred up?” Ennison shook his head. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. And it's uncanny.
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