“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. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. “More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. He turned in at the club. He, next cautiously tried the door, but found it fastened inside. But anything is better than this. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. ’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men.
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