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Rh "Overdoing it?"

"Yes, she's not so bad as all that. She can be very nice."

"You think her nice, do you? Well, she's like a spectre to me."

"No, no, you mustn't say that. And she's Addie's wife and the mother of his children."

"Look here, kiddie, don't be putting on such wise airs. They don't suit you."

"But she is the mother of his children and you're not to be so jealous."

"Am I jealous?"

"Yes, you're jealous . . . of Mathilde and of us."

"Very likely. I never see Addie. If I hadn't got Guy . . ."

"Well, you've got Guy. And you've got Addie as well."

"No, I haven't. . . . Do you know when he's coming back?"

"No, I don't, Uncle. And now come along in."

She drew Van der Welcke into the room with her; and, as usual, he went up to the old woman seated silently in her corner, rubbing his hands, trying to speak a few words to her. She recognized him and smiled. . . . The wind outside raged with a deeper note. . . . The branches of the trees swished along the windows, the twigs tapped at them as with fingertips. . . . And amid the eeriness of it all Constance suddenly felt it very strange that they were all of them there, all strangers in the old, gloomy house, which had once belonged to Henri's stern parents. The old woman had forgiven her, but the old man had never forgiven. He had died, his heart filled with rancour. And now they were all there, all strangers, except the son, except the grandson; and he was not there at the