‘You seem to understand the gentry very well. You will survive, mark my words. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. You were never married at all. “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. You do not know him.
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