“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. " "That is very kind of you," she acknowledged. A fine doctor from the Arte de Medici e Speziali was commissioned directly from Rome to oversee her care. It ought not to be much. “For luck. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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