Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. “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.
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