“I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. ’ The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. "Is it poison?" she asked. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. 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 was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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