. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Almost the best of all.
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