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. “When are you going away?” He asked. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. “You must pack for me.
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