Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. Her hips were wide and her athletic legs supported a very large rear end, which she flaunted by 140 wearing her gym shorts two sizes too small. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Passing thought. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved.
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