Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. She wormed her way past Sebastian, glanced at her mother’s blackened face, her obscenely naked body bulging with yellow and black buboes under the arms and in the groin that oozed stinking fluid. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled.
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