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For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. Accounted extremely pretty in her youth, her features and person expanded as she grew older, without much detriment to their original comeliness. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. 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. “Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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