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. . ‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. Listen, it is I. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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