“Yes?”
“Oh yes. I don’t think you’ve succeeded yet, Maggy. Even in spite of your poems.”
“Stukeley,” said Margaret, rising from his chair, “when we get to Accomac you will come ashore with me. I’ll do my best, when we’re ashore, to put my sword”—he advanced to Stukeley, bent swiftly over him, and touched him sharply on the Adam’s apple—“just there, Stukeley. Right through. To save the hangman the trouble.”
Stukeley watched him with amused contempt; he laughed. “Maggy’s in a paddy,” he said. “No, Maggy. I’m a married man, now, ducky. What would my wife do if she woke up one fine morning and found me gone? Eh?”
“Are you afraid to fight?”
“Afraid of a little crawling maggot who comes whining out some measly poems?”
Margaret took a quick step forward, and shot out a hand to seize Stukeley by the throat. Stukeley caught him by the wrist.
“Look here, Maggy,” he said.
“Drop my wrist. Drop it.”
“Take your dirty wrist.”