God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. Still, that leaves over a million shrines short, not reckoning widows who re-marry. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. We’d soon cool that temper of yours.
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