If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. ‘But don’t let me stop you from going to see Charvill. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said.
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