He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide.
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