“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. CHAPTER XV.
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