“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. "What has happened?" Ruth asked. Good night!" "Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames.
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