Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so. So says your capitaine.
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