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Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. But oh, how weary I am! I know. I suppose an intelligent person OUGHT to be interested in political affairs. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. ’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.

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