"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. “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. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. “Is that plain?” she asked. . Pray, walk in. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees.
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