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. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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