But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. 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. He was painfully in earnest, too. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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