” “Served the beast right,” Ennison declared. 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. “You fill me with happiness, John. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough.
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