“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. ‘He is not in England, you understand. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. "My sight is failing me. Getting pregnant in high school ended that dream for her. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird.
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