“It is a hateful story. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Gerald’s voice came back to her, saying that she could not hope to outwit “a man who means business”. ” Lucy cried, drawing attention from the somber crowd. ’ So saying, he pulled her forward, slipping her arms about his back. 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. I asked him—to take me away. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot.
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