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Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. She rose to the fire to stoke it. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. I’m not Gerald, remember.
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