They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. “Cheveney!” she repeated. "To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic. 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. “It’s very late. My name is Annabel, not Anna. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love.
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