Turning round, I found myself face to face with the fisherman's daughter, Limping Lucy.

Bating her lame foot and her leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man.

A dark, keen, clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of hair counted among her merits.

A crutch appeared in the list of her misfortunes.

And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her defects.
"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you want with me ?" "Where's the man you call Franklin Blake ?" says the girl, fixing me with a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.
"That's not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman," I answered.