54 \"Yes?\" \"No one says 'Oh my word' anymore. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. "He does seem a very extraordinary person. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. Jonathan Wild. That dress is thirty years old, if a day.
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