Please tell me what your terms are. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. 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. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet.
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