“Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. She pulled him towards the bed. "Well, I'm glad she's spared this. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. Lucy, would you like to be my date for the silly little dance they call the Junior Prom?\" There was a pregnant pause as she digested the information. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Perhaps he had had money in the coat, back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it.
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