’ Leaning down, she raised the hem of the petticoat of her habit to reveal a neat little pair of boots on her feet. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge.
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