He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. His eyes were bright with the hunt. Lucy wore it every day from then on. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. Always as black and bitter as gall.
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