So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption.
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