“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. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. I am betrothed to Captain Roding, which is why you can’t have him, you see. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
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