It was so easy to forget the imminent threats of being discovered during times of peace. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. Master, your humble servant. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. “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. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. Nigel! You have not forgotten. And not a worthy tome in sight.
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