Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. It began as a joke. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame.
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