Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. “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. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation.
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