flower oil painting

'Child,' returned my aunt, taking my arm, 'come in, and don't speak to me for ten minutes.' ¡¡¡¡We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the round green fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a chair, and occasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an hour. Then she came out, and took a seat beside me. ¡¡¡¡'Trot,' said my aunt, calmly, 'it's my husband.' ¡¡¡¡'Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!' ¡¡¡¡'Dead to me,' returned my aunt, 'but living.' ¡¡¡¡I sat in silent amazement. ¡¡¡¡'Betsey Trotwood don't
look a likely subject for the tender passion,' said my aunt, composedly, 'but the time was, Trot, when she believed in that man most entirely. When she loved him, Trot, right well. When there was no proof of attachment and affection that she would not have given him. He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly breaking her heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and for ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.'