“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. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement.
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