It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. But you have looked after me very well, and we will not allow this Gérard, who makes me all the time excessively angry, you understand, to make trouble between us. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. “Well, no,” she answered. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed.
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