“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses. He was also aware that all his arguments would shatter themselves against her resolutions. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent.
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