“But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. 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 turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. It’s no good flying out at that, Vee; I didn’t arrange it. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. I want my freedom. Something has changed her tremendously.
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