He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. “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. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully.
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