Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. Lucy? Come 177 on out. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating.
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