During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. 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. That would not help her. Pretty good stuff, some of it. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. ’ The Mother Abbess—and indeed all the nuns, some of higher birth more fearful than others—were aghast at the horrors that had befallen the family Valade. “You’ve been sneaking out just as often as Mary Lucia. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters.
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