She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. 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. We’ll find a way to survive. ‘Come on, Hilary.
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