Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. She is no longer mine; she is yours. 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. “Eight, Cavendish Square. . As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall.
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