There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. 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. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John.
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