" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. 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. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. Not about girls that I date. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp.
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