E. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter.
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