Sally had had more to drink than the
bottle of Mountain port her soul had craved for and was inclined to be
boisterous, but her temper was apt to be uncertain. It was a toss up
whether she laughed, cried or flew into a passion. She was inclined to
the first if she thought of her triumph over Lavinia and to the last
when Lancelot Vane and her failure to seduce him from his allegiance
came into her mind.
Sally often boasted she could win any man if she gave her mind to the
task, but Vane had escaped her toils. Perhaps it was that she had a
genuine passion for him and so had not used her powers of fascination.
The more she drank, the more she cursed herself for having allowed Vane
to slip through her fingers, and being in a reckless mood, she said as
much to Rofflash. Otherwise she would hardly have made a confidant of a
fellow who combined swash-buckling with highway robbery.
"What!" jeered Captain Jeremy, "Sally Salisbury own herself beaten over
a man. I'd as lief believe my old commander the great Duke Marlborough
crying he couldn't thrash the mounseers. I'll swear you didn't let him
go without getting the promise of an assignation out of him."
"A promise? Don't talk of promises. It's easier to get a promise out of
a man than his purse."
"Lord, madam, if it's the purse of that vapouring young spark you're
after, you'll be wasting your labour. You'll find it as empty as yonder
bottle.
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