‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. I'd like to be alone now. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. \"Good night, girls. Wood,—"he'll never mend. "Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone. 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. “My Mom was a good lady. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others.
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