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. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. ” “Two words only,” Hill repeated. "But, I own, I think it is like. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. Kneebone took his leave. So that it seemed to her the whole world had changed —the very light of it had changed. " "I shouldn't call her queer. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. I’m not a psycho.
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