’ Leaning down, she raised the hem of the petticoat of her habit to reveal a neat little pair of boots on her feet. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere. “I dare not,” she answered. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. “Showtime!” Martin cried. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now.
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