“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her.
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