Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker. I thought Mr. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. 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. “What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. You called yourself a murderess. "That gown is getting shabby. " "I am a thief, nevertheless.
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