Not content with this, the assailants set fire to the house in half-a-dozen other places; and the progress of the flames was rapid and destructive. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. 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. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. . He’s the handle of life for you.
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