CHAPTER XI. ’ ‘In a way she had been,’ said Prudence. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. “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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