She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. \" Lucy replied. Lord, I am sixty. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. Little by little, she stopped hating him. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring.
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