“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue.
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