“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. " "Halloo, Nab!" vociferated Quilt. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. That’s the difficulty.
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