By and by the tramp of horses' feet was heard slowly ascending Snow Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the area facing Newgate. “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. Then she goes to a dramatic agent. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands.
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