She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. A shiver slid down inside her. 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.
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