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. " "Man, she's your wife!" "And I am a thief. "From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned are taken to Tyburn. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. “It is just a look. I didn’t betray you, I swear I didn’t. It is a true saying that in the mountains there is peace. You've caught the colour and the life.
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