She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. The gong will go at seven-thirty. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. ’ Leaning down, she raised the hem of the petticoat of her habit to reveal a neat little pair of boots on her feet.
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