“Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. It never is. "Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. It was hot and dry.
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