ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. 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. Wasn't the river beautiful under the moonlight?" "We did not leave our cabins. Jack turned away with an aching heart. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. And empty. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him.
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