“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. “It’s too bad. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham.
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