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. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. But the world didn’t do that. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. ” Mr. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her.
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