“I want a vote for myself,” she said. “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. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly.
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