“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. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. Which, let me assure you, villain, will not be so far away. There is no other way. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose.
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