But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. The movement was fatal to her son.
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