His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. “FAIL!” she said. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “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 want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like.
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