Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely.
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