She interrupted. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. "Swear that you will do this," she cried. ” “For example?” “Your dyed hair. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. And it’s gorgeous!” “Glorious!” said Ann Veronica. You had better go to bed. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!" He went to bed. 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.
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