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“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. But it would serve. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Bought her a nose job for her sixteenth birthday along with a car, I forget what model, but it was a nice car, a Mercedes convertible. "It is Jonathan. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he continued, shaking him with great violence. That's a queer yarn. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us.
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