The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. This man’s name is Montague Hill. " Neither man spoke. He returned the locket without comment. 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. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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