He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. ’ ‘You would speak of the house?’ ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. “You have been very kind to me,” she said.
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