“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. Plainly. “Would they make her Queen?” She asked innocently. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. ‘I do not know.
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