Gerald frowned. ‘I know, Melusine. “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. ” “Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed. "Disparity of rank is ever productive of unhappiness in the married state. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. That was an admission all right. ” She thanked him with one of her shy little glances.
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