The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like.
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