’ ‘What, a common soldier?’ ‘He was not a common soldier. \" Lucy fought to resist the compulsion to 45 fold her arms over her chest. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. An extra pair of gym clothes materialized within fractions of a second. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path.
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