It was 1582. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. “I have not the least idea who he is. ” The sensation produced was gratifying enough. "Wretch!" cried Jack. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. “I am giving my understudy a chance. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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