Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. ‘But you cannot expect that we will any of us remain altogether quiet,’ objected Melusine. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.
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