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. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. You want industry—you want steadiness. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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