Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. "Much that I would willingly forget. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected.
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