The goose and his girl.
Enter a girl.
Or, to be more accurate, enter an uncommonly large and determined gander -- now scuttling, now swooping across the lawn -- pursued by a skinny twelve-year-old. Her shoes are shabby, her stockings dirty, her skirts are hiked up about her knees. Her black hair straggles from under a skewed mobcap; her black eyes snap and sparkle with exasperation.
"Saracen!" she hollers at the bird's retreating tailfeathers.
Typist: Please to welcome Miss Mosca Mye, here to prove that not all the characters in Fly By Night are completely terrifying. ...well, not completely.
Or, to be more accurate, enter an uncommonly large and determined gander -- now scuttling, now swooping across the lawn -- pursued by a skinny twelve-year-old. Her shoes are shabby, her stockings dirty, her skirts are hiked up about her knees. Her black hair straggles from under a skewed mobcap; her black eyes snap and sparkle with exasperation.
"Saracen!" she hollers at the bird's retreating tailfeathers.
Typist: Please to welcome Miss Mosca Mye, here to prove that not all the characters in Fly By Night are completely terrifying. ...well, not completely.