“It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. . “Useless—worse than useless. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. Kneebone. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. 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.
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