“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. ” He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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