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. ’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. THE PRISON-BREAKER. Nigel Ennison was he. It isn’t.
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