“I’m still inside you. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. "That depends upon you. See what you have made of me. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. She hastened past.
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