Sepulchre's clock struck eight. “Come on in. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. ” She said. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. 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. Something seemed awry.
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