Last week. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. I have seen many of them. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly.
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