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. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. He was not due from the City until about six, and so she went and played Badminton with the Widgett girls until dinner-time. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Spurling. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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