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 bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. And stony broke. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself.
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