I’m a hard young woman. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. " "Well, take a chair," rejoined Kneebone. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. If I’d known, there would have been a different story.
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