It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. 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.
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