He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. Lucy thought of herself as belonging to Sebastian whether she liked it or not. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time.
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