Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. She was to have fifteen pounds, and no more. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. It will take at least three weeks. She stopped eating. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
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