Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. "No offence," returned Jonathan.
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