“I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. “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. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father.
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