“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. He had scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was so violent, and the noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding, that he almost determined to relinquish the undertaking. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. You would not have believed me, I know well. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping.
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