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. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. ’ ‘I fetched them with my clothes when the son of madame took me to see Marthe,’ Melusine admitted. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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