’ ‘You see,’ Melusine explained between mouthfuls of food, ‘poor Marthe had promised to my father that she will say nothing. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Winifred pointed to the door. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself.
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