Then Manning flopped back in his chair and dropped his chin like a man shot. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. 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. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. “Some day,” she answered.
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