“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. " "On the contrary, if that is a specimen, they must be poets. "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. And there was that dress of hers! She must be warned that she had been imposed upon. And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. He was—a millionaire. Tell me, Sir," she added, with forced calmness, and grasping Wood's arm; "what has Jack done? Tell me in a word, that I may know the worst.
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