Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. 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. . ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. His manner was deferential, even eager. I was always told my mother died the day I was born.
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