’ He smiled down at her. And the woollen-draper departed. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean.
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