“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. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. Brown or Jones, I dare say. “Okay. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly. His manner was deferential, even eager. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets.
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