Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed.
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