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. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?" "God alone knows!" "And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing.
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