“This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters— and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. ” Lucy commented as the mud was smoothed around the grave site. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again.
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