“Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!" He went to bed. I am grateful, indeed I am. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. I’m okay.
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