She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. \" Lucy replied meekly. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. You're a queer lad. "Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. To his relief, she nodded. .
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