"Hard liquor!!" Morgan finally yelled, covering one side of her face with a hand, impersonating a half-wit. No one could hear anyone except the man in the black coat (whom no one could understand). Morgan started waving her hand about as though the noise drowning everyone's voices was a large, persistent gnat. Nancy finally pulled her aside and shouted into her ear, "Will you get a load of . . . " "What the fuck is going on around here?" bawled Morgan, plucking Nancy's words from her ear with a forefinger. "Just look at him," said Nancy, beaming with heathen desire. "What an anal-retentive jerk, but man-O-man!" She pointed to the source of all the discord, the barking, whining and hooting of what seemed, if one listened really carefully, to be innuendos of God, sin and repentance. "I thought he was talking to himself," Morgan noted. "He is." But the two gaped at the preacher anyway and agreed, with a nod and a knowing frown-grin, that beneath all of his dark, dreary raiment, they detected a full six feet of solid, chiseled, unbelievable maleness (How could they tell? they could tell). From under his funny hat, thick wavy, just-below-the-ear length locks of rich, dark brown hair flowed, just barely tinted a coppery gold by the sun. His nose sat straight and smooth above a finely curved, lush-lipped grimace. "I sure wouldn't mind depuritizing him," Nancy pondered aloud. "Imagine a smile on that face." She sucked a deep breath into her lungs and let it out in a long, exotic sigh. "Someone ought to stuff that dumb hat of his into his mouth," her side-kick replied. "Or something else?" Nancy gnashed her wet, gleaming teeth. "Maybe this will help." Morgan then gave a brief and cryptic hand signal to Nancy and they both, having been well rehearsed, turned around, bent over and lifted their skirts. The puritanical hulk's face flushed as red as Charles Stuart's nobility jacket and the ale-house patrons were startled with a silence none had expected.