“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. A brief calm succeeded. She could not stir hand or foot. She had heard the trader utter it many times. "Let me go first," said Blueskin; "the dogs know me. ’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently.
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