It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ‘Looks like it. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. "A little. " Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became what he had once been normally, a lovable boy.
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