I always told you some accident would happen. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. 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. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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