“I want a vote for myself,” she said. 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. 58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. He now tells her that she is free, no longer a slave. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. Wood, leaping from the bed. It was a duel, you understand, and that is not permitted.
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