And my word's law—with you, at least," she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband. And also she didn’t like them. 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 snatched about in her mind. The campaign’s a success. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. "How?" cried her brother, starting. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over. "Ay, robbed him," reiterated Jonathan. It’s not far from twilight.
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