The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. ‘I’ve had enough of this. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. ‘But for my dowry, what else? One cannot expect that an Englishman will marry any jeune demoiselle without a dowry.
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