She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. "I am twenty," said the girl. " "And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth. This also struck her as odd. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. “But about last night. It’s a world of dirt and skin diseases and parasites. The militia offered little in the way of relief. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. Melusine recognised the burly form of Captain Roding’s sergeant. “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. “To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city.
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