Gerald realised Lucy had taken the hint, for she dragged her betrothed towards the door. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars—quick—quick!" These commands were promptly obeyed. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief.
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