And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. " "Perhaps that was it. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. But it is the truth.
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