We were only—les autres. " Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. “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 tinge of admiration rose in his breast. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer.
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