“No, it was simple. 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. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows. I have always hated it. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. ” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “don’t!” “Why not?” she asked, smiling. But I never found any truth in the saying. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately.
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