Polwhele didn't understand his insolence. Being a woman that
wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it, and coming from a parish
where every man, her husband included, took pleasure in treating her
respectfully, she never dreamed that an affront was meant. From the
moment she heard Bligh's lingo, she firmly believed that here were
two Frenchies on the coach; and first she went white to the lips and
shivered all over, and then she caught at the seat to steady herself,
and then she flung back a look at Jim the Guard, to make sure he had
his blunderbuss handy. She couldn't speak to Sammy Hosking, the
coachman, or touch him by the arm without reaching across Bligh: and
by this time the horses were at the top of the hill and settling into
a gallop. She thought of the many times she'd sat up in bed at home
in a fright that the Frenchmen had landed and were marching up to
burn Manaccan Vicarage: and how often she had warned her husband
against abusing Boney from the pulpit--'twas dangerous, she always
maintained, for a man living so nigh the seashore. The very shawl
beside her was scarlet, same as the women-folk wore about the fields
in those days in hopes that the invaders, if any came, would mistake
them for red-coats.
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