“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. Rousing himself, he went to the door. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. “He’s got good taste, you know.
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