She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. 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. \" He had caught her in a moment of weakness; the hunger had made her emotional! She felt a terrible warmth surge from her loins. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. “Here goes,” he said. She throws a sort of spell over us all. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality.
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