Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the ‘Unusual’. Yet she held her tongue.
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