She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Lucy kissed him on the cheek. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads.
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