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 am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. Men are against her. It is putting all my dreams out of joint. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. Ruth?" "Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. And now, let's see who'll refuse the pledge. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright.
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