Humph. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer. Italians. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that.
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