Michelle looked at Lucy knowingly. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. “I’ll get a towel. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. Give me but leave to try. I am sure it will be good, John, and I could eat anything. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason.
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