‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. 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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