Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. "That gown is getting shabby. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living.
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