With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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