She doesn't understand; she believes he has taken a sudden dislike to her. She hit the villain with it. Lucy looked about confusedly. 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’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration.
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