Jack was completely overcome. 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. She was definitely following him. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. On the contrary. She would be extraordinarily interesting as a metaphysical study. " "Ship her back to her father"—sagely. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly.
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