Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. Wood, severely, "and go to bed. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. Jackson, to the swig. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Too late. Would you like to borrow some of my clothes? I think we're about the same size. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon.
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