As they entered the room beyond, a fierce growl was heard. 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. They must have a key. It was open. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. ” She said. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed.
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