He did not particularly care. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked. 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.
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