“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. " "Jack's a noble fellow," exclaimed the head-jailer of Clerkenwell Prison, raising his glass; "and, though he played me a scurvy trick, I'll drink to his speedy deliverance. ” Their agreement so far seemed remarkable, and yet as a home-coming the thing was a little lacking in warmth. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. " "I begin to see that I shall have to learn English all over again. Her steps slowed.
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