“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. He got up. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. We WERE thieves. 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. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek.
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