‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. "Something's wrong. Manning,” she said, “I warned you not to idealize me. ” “They know you better,” he declared. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. 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. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings.
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