277 “I was beginning to think that I would never see you again, Lucy. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you.
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