” “You alarm me,” she murmured, smiling. I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. “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 don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. He understood. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out.
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