” She said to them, raising her head to speak, her voice unsteady. ’ She was too distressed to bear this. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. She gloried in it: he needed her.
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