Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. “If you speak—farewell. "Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. Their faces had bite marks that were hers. It has all been a mistake. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain.
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