She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. “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. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. The inn was a military haunt. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue.
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