“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. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered.
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