" The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. I'll call it my wedding gift. I love some one else. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded.
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