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. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room.
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