"I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. 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. It was horrible. "Stop thief!" clamoured the rabble behind. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence.
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