She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant. For so far she had kept it uncashed. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. She traced him by his scent. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. They were drenched with water and suds.
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