Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. There'll be busy days and idle. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Even if she has to work two jobs to do it. Do sit down, dear boy. My servant.
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