“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. ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered.
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