"I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The stain upon our family is only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his bastard, and I will keep my oath. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. 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.
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