Sheppard. “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. He had scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was so violent, and the noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding, that he almost determined to relinquish the undertaking. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. “Dear husband,” she murmured.
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