Go to her and tell her. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. The island castle at Port Herculis had been part of the trade off, all to be kept as quiet as the circumstances of her second marriage and her “suicide”. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John.
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