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Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. . Of you, I mean. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. " "Very well. You will never be happy with this hanging over you. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. . “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things.
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