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. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring.
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