![]() ![]() ![]() "I have no further need for you."ĭevastated, Sugar turned to her yellowing manuscript for a reminder of who she'd once been: an independent, spirited, vast-brained autodidact capable of devising spectacular fantasy demises for the innumerable "trembling worms" who'd tussled with her bustle. "Hobble off back to your room," he barked after an evening spent banging pustular tarts in a wee-spattered alleyway. The focus, as ever, was on Sugar's changing fortunes – her identity drifting in and out of focus as William's affections sputtered like the gaslights that clung to his lung-coloured hallways. After three weeks of relatively steady misery, here was a conclusion that gathered up all assumptions and remaining tufts of humour, then booted them into the Thames. From the depths of W11, the plot extended a bony finger and beckoned us into its final act. ![]()
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