The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. It was no use. “And I’m not happy. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. It isn't your duty. . And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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