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She shook her head. 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. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. JONATHAN WILD.
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