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. Ennison spoke at last. She felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all.
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