Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. God would have taken mercy on her baby, seeing that she had already had too much pain and that he had taken her beloved mother. I really must leave you now. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. There must be persons tender and loving in this world.
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