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. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. Dead or alive, I'll have him. "Nobody shall," cried Mr.
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