‘At least I couldn’t say for sure. " She laughed; and it was pleasant laughter in his ears. “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. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face.
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