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. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. She finished the olive and looked up. If it hadn’t been for Professor Russell standing up for him, they say he would have had to leave.
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