She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. ” He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered her onto the flat surface of the picnic bench. "By desire of his Majesty," said the jailer, consequentially. She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her.
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