“Stop,” he said. “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. “I’m thirsty. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. The poor things! Oh, it was quite dreadful.
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