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The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. I don’t want to know. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife.
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