Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. We’d soon cool that temper of yours. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. 2. Sheppard was unwillingly compelled to listen.
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