“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 knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. Heard voices. Her desires were not for riches. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue.
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