Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Of course, he had no idea who I was. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. " "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you.
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