“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. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. “You know what a fearful old prig Ferringhall is, always goes about as though the whole world were watching him? We tried to show him around Paris, but he wouldn’t have any of it. “I think that it is only an idea. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet. ’ Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. A married man!—the kind I've never been able to lure down there! But keep your temper in check. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have occasioned this disturbance. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered.
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