‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. “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. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “Difficulties indeed. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world —there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it. You don’t understand the fix I am in. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room.
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