“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. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. Sydney was watching her eagerly. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. She had a warm, fun-loving personality, and an unflattering disrespect for her future husband’s authority. “Very good,” he said.
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