C. “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. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. ‘I am not a murderer.
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