The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. “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. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession.
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