Wood. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. ‘Yes, miss. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him.
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