The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Mr.
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