Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. 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. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. What a pig she was.
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